


Winter has come (but spring will follow)

by Alasse_Schwarz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And the New ones too, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Back to life, Blasted Old Gods, Bran what have you done?, Established Relationship for Jon, F/M, Fix-It, Gendry is a Baratheon, Guys this is a post Ramsay fic, House Baratheon of the North, Married Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Mention of Death, Multi, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Queen in the North, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The God of Death doesn't like this, The fic where the Bran plays with magic and the Starks come back to life, Very angst, and chaos ensues, hopefully, magic involved, mention of rape, ofc there is mention of rape, time travel but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Schwarz/pseuds/Alasse_Schwarz
Summary: «Brandon Stark» Arya hissed from her family’s embrace: «What have you done?».«I brought us all back, Arya».OrTen years after the Long Night and the Burning of King's Landing, Bran experiments with magic and the Starks come back to life. Westeros though is not the place they left, nor their living family is what they remember anymore.





	1. Prologue: Ned – Winterfell (Beautiful, wilful and dead before her time)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello, hello!  
I didn't expect myself to be here with this story: the truth is that, even though I've been an obsessive fan of ASOIAF for the last ten years, I've never wrote anything in this fandom, so this is much of an experiment for me. I hope it's not going to be a disaster, but hey, you can never know.  
This is my personal rebellion to season 8, which I consider the pathetic conclusion of a series that deserved better: my Arya deserved better, my Gendry deserved better, but Daenerys most of all DESERVED BETTER.  
Lastly, but not for importance, this story was inspired mostly by [wolves without teeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998614/chapters/45115720) by truthbealiar, (which, if you haven't read it, I suggest you do, because their Sansa is one of the best Sansa I ever read!) and by Brave, and gentle, and strong. of simonetta (whose Sansa and Jon are a marvel).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this work, se you next week!

**Prologue: Ned – Winterfell (_Beautiful, wilful and dead before her time_)**

_Forgive me, Lyanna._

Eddard Stark could still feel the cold steel of the executioner sword – _his_ sword, _Ice_ – touching his neck, could still feel the pain of the sword breaking the skin of his neck and going down, down, _down_. Sansa’s screams and the crowd’s jeers still rang in his ears and he could only hope that Yoren had gotten to Arya in time for her not to see him die. _Die_. He was _dead_. He had hoped to see Lyanna again, and Father and Brandon, but nothing apart darkness and cold were around him, as far as he could see. Was this death? Cold and nothingness for him to think about his mistakes over and over for the rest of time?

_Forgive me, Lyanna. Forgive me._

He was dead, his daughters were still in the city, in the hands of inbred coldblooded murderers, and he could do nothing, only hope that Robb could where he had failed so spectacularly. Could only hope that his daughters would be safe, that his family would come unscathed from all this. But there was no way that he was going to keep his promise to Jon now. No way the boy would know who his mother was now, no way to repair from a lifetime of mistakes.

_Oh, Lyanna, please forgive me._

Then a gasp and hands around his face made him open his eyes and he saw the last face he thought he was ever going to see again: _Cat_. «Ned» she whispered, tears streaming down from her eyes. He brought a hand to her face and smiled, surprising even himself: «Cat». Other gasps and exclamations around him and then Robb was on him too, crying like Ned had never seen him. «What is going on? Where are we? I… died» Lord Stark said, raising from the snow he was lying on: it was then that he noticed his other two sons: Bran and Rickon were a few feet from them, locked in a tight embrace, but while Bran was exactly as Ned remember him – lanky, more limbs and bones than meat – Rickon was not the child he remembered: he was taller that his brother, but while Bran was thin as a scarecrow, Rickon was fuller and more defined, as if he had been moving and training a lot. What surprised him the most, however, was the sheer reluctance and almost spite with which his youngest refused his mother embrace, while Bran seemed to be utterly unimpressed with everything around them.

It was then that he noticed: _Bran was on his feet_. «Bran, you walk. You _walk_!» Catelyn cried, embracing their son tightly. Bran barely embraced her back, looking around himself, and Ned followed suit, trying to understand what was going on.

«Oh, I didn’t think we would be here» Bran said, still gripped in Robb’s arms, his right hand tightly grasped in Rickon’s.

«We’re… in a Weirdwood?» Ned asked, looking around, but then he noticed the walls around them and understood: «No, it’s a Godswood. But where?».

«We’re in Staghaven» Bran said, with his emotionless tone that was starting to worry Ned, but Robb’s question moved his mind towards the matter at hand: «_Staghaven_? And where is that?».

«It’s in the North, in the keep that was built in place of the Dreadfort».

«In place of the Dreadfort? What happened to the Dreadfort? And Bolton? That damn traitor…!» Robb started to swore but stopped when he noticed that his brothers’ attention was on something behind him, and turned, followed by Ned and Cat.

There, standing in a dark furred coat, was his sister just as young and beautiful as Eddard remembered her: «_Lyanna_» he whispered, his eyes full of unshed tears, but the young girl looked at him and the raw pain in her eyes told him he was wrong. Lyanna had known pain, but never so much to keep the brightness from her gaze: that young woman, however, had grey eyes as cold as steel, and as dark as stone. «Arya!» Bran said, moving quickly towards the girl, who pointed her pained stare on him, moving a bit as if to shield the right side of her body, and it was then that he noticed that there was _something_ under her coat, around the middle side of her body.

_“Arya”_ Ned thought, looking at the lady as if there was a ghost in front of him: he couldn’t reconcile his wild little girl, the one he had last seen under the statue of Baelor with what he had in front of his eyes with this pained young woman. There was something so different in her, something that made him dread what his child had been through. «What do you have under there?» he asked, not knowing what to do or think.

«Bran» she answered simply, even though the situation was all _but_ simple.

«What do you mean “Bran”? Bran is in front of you!» Robb said, moving towards his sister, just to stop in his track at Bran’s question: «Bran your child? Can I see him?» his own son asked, and Ned was too astonished to do anything but look while his daughter uncovered the babe, barely two, on her right hip. He had black hair and the bluest eyes Eddard had ever seen. _“Baratheon blue”_ the man thought, thinking of Robert, Stannis and Renly’s eyes, and recognizing immediately the similarity between how Renly looked during Robert’s rebellion and the small boy in his daughter arms. _“But how..?”._

He didn’t ask, however, because Catelyn broke in a run to embrace her daughter as if she hadn’t seen her in ages, soon followed by Robb e Rickon. And he soon embraced her as well.

«_Brandon Stark_» Arya hissed from her family’s embrace: «_What have_ _you done?_».

«_I brought us all back, Arya_».


	2. Chapter I: Arya – Valar Morghulis (What is dead may never die)

**Chapter I: Arya – Valar Morghulis (_What is dead may never die_)**

Her morning had begun the same as many others had in the last ten years had: in the arms of her husband, the sun shining quietly from the high windows of their chambers and the quiet sounds of the servants slowly and quietly moving around the keep. She turned to see Gendry’s face while he still slept, enjoying the sight of him so relaxed as he rarely was in that period: the winter had been going on for almost eleven years now, it was the longest and coldest they had endured in centuries; they needed to build two more glass gardens in the castle and the whole work behind it seemed to never end, stressing the young inexperienced lord to no end. And his wife with him, not used anymore in not seeing her husband for entire days, only waking late in the night when he joined her to sleep, both too exhausted for anything but sleep.

She got up, eventually, not knowing how much time had passed, but sure that it could not be that late, as the castle was still waking up: she dressed in one of her utterly simple and comfortable gowns – breaches were _not_ that comfortable, when you were eight moons pregnant, soon turning to nine – and put her valyrian steel dagger in one of the pockets that she made sure were sewn in all her clothing, then left the lord’s chambers and made way to break her fast in the great hall, but once she passed near the nursery she heard a child crying and immediately recognized Bran’s fussing, so she detoured.

«Princess» the wet nurse nodded to her, totally unaware or ignoring completely Arya’s grimace at the title, while trying to soothe the child with little success: «I have no idea what got into him, m’lady, he is so restless…».

«He probably just wants to see me and Gendry, give him here Alys» the young woman said, taking the baby in her arms, and, as if confirming her words, he stopped sobbing and just sniffled a little before smiling to her.

«You’re good with your children, Lady Arya» the girl nodded, relieved for the sudden peace, and Arya asked: «Aren’t all mothers?».

«No, my lady. Being a mother doesn’t come to us as naturally as it comes to animals» the girl said, then left, leaving Arya to reflect on her statement.

Then Bran started to blab and Arya just smiled to him, before making her way to the great hall: «What if we go to the Godswood later, Bran? Would you like that?». She didn’t expect to find anything unusual in the Godswood that morning. And even the most imaginative people would not have imagined what she found.

***

«_Brandon Stark_» she hissed, while keeping her child tight in her arms, just as her mother and brothers were keeping her: «_What have you done?_».

«I brought us all back, Arya» Bran said, his expression emotionless just the same as she remembered it, even in a face much younger to the one she was used to.

«You played with magic _again_? How many times do I have to tell you that is dangerous? I should toss you from another window! And how did you pay for this?».

«Pay?» Catelyn asked, looking between Arya and Bran with her eyes round as dragons; «Aye, Mother, _pay_. _Only death pays for life_. Who did you kill to bring you all back?».

«Only myself. Being the three-eyed-raven made my life more valuable than a normal one» Bran answered, ignoring the gasps coming from Ned and Robb at his words, but Arya shook her head in denial and said: «To the Old Gods maybe, not to the God of Death. You stole five deaths from him and paid only one back. You owe him four deaths, Bran, and the God of Death doesn’t like thieves: or you pay him, or he will get back what you stole». The serious moment was interrupted by Robb’ sneeze, and Arya turned towards him, noticing for the first time his light clothing covered in blood – which everyone but her and Bran shared –: «Let’s go inside, we have much to discuss, and you could use clothing not stained in your own blood. I have some of your old stuff here in the keep».

«Why do you have our old stuff?» Robb asked, following her in the tick snow that covered the Godswood. «Winterfell had to be rebuilt and there was no space for baskets full of unused stuff, so we sent everything to the Dreadfort, while we prepared Winterfell for the siege».

«Siege from who? Joffrey?» Ned asked, his hand helping Catelyn walk in the tick snow, but Arya snorted: «As if! The seven damned bastard went and died at the Purple Wedding, someone poisoned him with the strangler. No, we were sieged by the Night’s King» Arya answered, opening the door that led into the Godswood and let them inside.

«_THE NIGHT’S KING?!_» Robb and Ned exclaimed, too shocked to keep their voice down, just to be struck by Arya’s glaring eyes: «Low your voices, for fuck’s sake! And get upstairs before anyone sees you!».

«But… The Night’s King?» Robb asked again, too shocked to think of anything else.

«Aye, the damn Night’s King and his damned army of dead people. Now go upstairs!» his sister said, pushing him towards a flight of stairs that seemed to be still new and unused. The Starks went up and found themselves in a long and dark corridor, and following Arya inside they reached her solar: Stark’s banners decorated the walls, alternated with another house banners that Ned didn’t know, but he would have recognized that black stag everywhere, even crownless on a white field. Tall windows pointed at south-west, probably illuminating the solar mostly in the afternoon, and the walls were decorated with bookcases, swords of various shapes and sizes hanged on the walls; the most beautiful piece, however, was a finely decorated tapestry hanging over the hearth, which represented a black stag and a dark grey furred wolf in front of a crying heart tree: at the side of the wolf was another one, red with blue eyes and crowned, while near the stag was a white one with red eyes and a scar on his muzzle. It took Ned a few seconds to understand that he was looking at his daughter’s marriage ceremony.

«Sit, I will have food brought up» Arya said, before closing the door behind them, and so they did.

Arya kept walking, leaving Bran in the nursery with one of his wet nurses, then took clean clothing for the family members who needed it and left it to them to change into, before going down to the kitchens, where she found a still very much asleep Hot Pie: «Hot Pie?» she called, moving him a bit.

«Oh? I’m up, I’m up! Ah, Arry, it’s you. What do you need?» the young man asked, getting up from where he had fallen asleep.

«I have five guests in my solar, Hot Pie, I need some food and bread and salt. They will stay for a while, so plan accordingly here in the kitchen, aye?».

«Yes, Arry! My pies should be ready soon, I will bring them up in a few minutes!».

«Thanks, Hot Pie!» Arya said, leaving after greeting the few workers already working in the cold morning and making her way back up, not to the solar, but to tower of the maester: she needed to send a raven to Winterfell, she couldn’t hide this from Sansa, nor she _would_. She just hoped this wouldn’t get them in another war, as she had seen and fought enough for the rest of her life.

***

When she made it back to the solar, she got there at the same time with the maids bringing the bread and salt she had requested: she entered with them and they left as unsuspecting as they had come in.

She and her family shared bread and salt, something that when they were all alive would never have had any need to be done, as they had been living all together in Winterfell, but now in a new keep and after being killed and betrayed and butchered she felt the need to reassure them and to reassure herself.

_My hearth is your hearth, my table your table._

And no one would hurt them again, as long as she had a say in it.

«So, what is going on here? Bran, explain» Arya asked once they finished and they had changed with the clothes she had brought for them from two chests she kept in her chambers – and seeing them without blood on their clothes was a nice change, her memory finally stopped from bringing memories of the Great Sept and the Red Wedding up to her mind. Bran nodded, not needing to be prodded further: «After I became King of the Six Kingdoms…».

«_Six_ _Kingdoms_?» Robb interrupted, his eyes moving from Bran to Arya, and back.

«Aye, the North is an independent Kingdom, it has for more than ten years now» Arya answered, turning to Bran once again and stopping any more question with her hand.

«After I became king I started making research, I was curios about how Jon had been brought back to life by Melisandre», Ned got even paler, while Robb seemed sick and even Catelyn’s face, for how much she had hated Jon Snow, went white thinking of her husband’s bastard lying dead: «I got my hands on many magical tomes, both from Westeros and from Essos, but what each and every tome said was that…» «Only death pays for life» Arya said, and Bran nodded: «Exactly, so I understood that a sacrifice had to be made in order to bring them back. I decided to sacrifice myself, as I thought my life as the three-eyed-raven would have been enough to pay, and I succeed».

«What of the tomes?» Arya demanded, and he answered: «I burned them, I didn’t want anyone to read them and understand what I wanted to do. Only the next three-eyed-raven is going to know the exact procedure, and what she does with that knowledge will depend on the Old Gods will».

«Blasted Gods…» Arya cursed, gaining shocked gasps and a judgemental stare from her father, and her lips got thin as she pressed them together to stop her stream of curses: «So what now? You came back to life and brought our family back, but to what end?».

«There is no ulterior motive to my actions, Arya».

«So you decided that dying in the middle of the coldest winter of the last few centuries was a good idea? And just as good of an idea was leaving the six kingdoms without a leader and coming back North, to let us be accused of stealing their king? Do you want another war, Bran?».

«I saw no war in the future before my final attempt, so I didn’t think there would be one».

«There is not going to be one because Sansa and I are ruling the Seven Kingdoms right now, we have been for months now!».

«How are you ruling the Seven Kingdoms from here?!» Robb exploded, looking at her like she was mad, and she smiled a bit: «Through connections: Edmure Tully rules the Riverlands, our cousin Robin is the Lord Paramount of the Vale, and my husband is the brother of the Lord of the Stormlands. Dorne as usual is neutral, so are the Ironborn and the Crownlands. The Reach is in the hands of a man that cares only for dragons and Sansa is still on friendly terms with Tyrion Lannister».

«… Fuck» was all Robb could whisper, before a light knocking on the door had all their heads turn towards it: «Come in» Arya commanded.

Hot Pie came, followed from the maids from before, bringing food for all of them: pies, fruits, cakes, ale and wine was brought, as was meat and bread. «Thank you, Hot Pie. We will have our next meal in the solar».

The man nodded and left with a: «I will bring lunch up later then, Arry».

«_Arry_?» Catelyn asked, once the door was closed, probably because it was the simplest thing to concentrate on at the moment – rather than death, gods and her daughters apparently being the most powerful women to ever walk on Westeros.

«Arry Snow. It was the name I used to escape from King’s Landing after Father’s execution. I travelled with Yoren, a crow from the Wall, and every sort of monster from the King’s cells. Hot Pie was sold to the crow with some other children, and we wanted to travel to Winterfell, but… Well, things happened».

«Who is your husband? You said he is the brother of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands? Who got the seat?» her mother asked, but Arya shocked her head and said: «No, if we are doing this we are doing it from the beginning».

«And what is the beginning?» Ned asked, his hand on her mother shoulder.

«Jon’s mother is the beginning, Father».

The shocked silence that followed lasted for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, second chapter! And we pass from a dead man to a living woman, with all the differences in opinion that such thing will bring. Where Ned had been shocked and happy, Arya was equally shocked but also aware - of an awareness that the child Arya would not have - of what her family's return could bring to the North. Arya might seem changed, but remember that a) this is an AU and b) it has been ten long years since the war. And yes, I think Arya changed in that time.  
I hope you liked the chapters! See you next week!


	3. Chapter II: Cat – Dark Wings, Dark Words (Family, Duty, Honour)

**Chapter II: Cat – Dark Wings, Dark Words (_Family, Duty, Honour_)**

Catelyn couldn’t believe to her ears. Couldn’t believe what she heard, couldn’t believe what she was listening to now. At some point Ned’s lips kept moving, narrating a tale she had heard so many times, yet was so different she could not stop her ears from ringing.

_It was a lie_.

Everything from the very first day she arrived in Winterfell to find the nursery – _her _nursery, the one where _her_ children should have stayed – occupied by the babe of another woman, had been a lie. _Her whole marriage was based on a lie_. She couldn’t believe it, because if she believed it then it would be true, and how can a woman accept that her marriage, the last twenty years of her life, had been a lie? How can _anyone_ accept that?

_Jon Snow. No, Aegon Targaryen. He was not her husband bastard, he was no one’s bastard. He was her nephew. He was family._

And, once again in her life, she doubter her marriage would stand after this. But just like the first time, Catelyn swallowed all her thoughts, all the hurt and the hate and the rage. She was a Tully of Riverrun, her words were clear: _Family, Duty, Honour_. Family before duty and duty before honour. She just got her family back, she just found new family, and she would not greet them with hate and spite and hurt. No, she would deal with it later. Later when all the truth was out, and her family was safe once again, then she would deal with it. Not now.

_Family, Duty, Honour._

Nothing of that, however, seemed to matter to the people around her that continued to argue and argue; then a hand on her shoulder got her attention and Arya’s face came into her view. It took Catelyn a moment to concentrate on what her daughter was saying, but when she did her surprise was plain to see for everyone: «Come, Mother, I will bring you to the sept».

«A sept? You have a sept here?» Catelyn asked, surprised by the knowledge: the faith never really touched the North – nor her wild Arya – and she couldn’t understand why her daughter would build it. «Aye, many of the people who work here followed us from King’s Landing and the Stormlands, so we built them a sept, as we didn’t want them to feel abandoned by their gods» Arya was explaining, and Catelyn couldn’t help but smile while seeing her daughter show her around _her_ keep like a proper lady – a feat she had thought impossible for a while during the girl’s childhood, and one she had abandoned, as it hurt too much to think of her, when she had resigned to her daughter’s death. And yet here she was, content in a keep with children. Maybe some of her prayers had been heard by the gods, after all.

Staghaven’s sept was much bigger and used than the one in Winterfell had ever been: it was clean, well kept, the smell of incense in the air and lighted candles in front of the statue of each god – even one in front of the Stranger, for the surprise of Catelyn, and Arya seeing the direction of her mother’s sight had admitted that it had been her to light it. People were praying in front of the gods and giving offers, while the Septon was listening to confessions and forgiving sins discretely in a secluded area of the sept. This sept was similar, yet very different from the one in Riverrun, but the feeling of acceptance that Catelyn felt inside was just the same she had in her old home’s one; the coloured windows created games of light in the air, creating an air of peace and quiet in Cat’s heart for the first time since she had woken up in the godswood that morning. No, for the first time since Bran had fell from the Broken Tower. “_No, not fell, pushed. My son had been pushed”_ Cat thought, remembering Jaime Lannister face as the man confessed his crime to her. And, once again, Catelyn hoped that, wherever the damn man was squatting he could hear his seven-damned sisters screams, and do nothing to stop it.

«Mother» Arya whispered, bringing Catelyn in front of the only god that the woman had never prayed to, not even in her most desperate moments: a young Septa offered them both chairs to sit on, as Arya couldn’t bend in her condition, and they sat, away from the ears – but not the eyes – of the other faithful, just for Cat to wish for the Sept to be as unused as Winterfell’s one: «Mother, I know you’re angry. I was too when I found out. But you _came back_, Mother, you all did, please don’t let anger on sins of a past life get to you. We can all start again, you, I, Sansa, and my brothers and Father. We can start again, you can meet my children and Sansa’s children and we can be _happy_, like we were before Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell. We can be even more happy than then, because there will be no more lies. I know that you don’t usually pray the Stranger, but he helped the Old Gods bring you back, so please Mother, light a candle for him and let’s start anew. We can, and we shall».

Catelyn couldn’t remember the last time she had had a conversation this profound with Arya, but she was glad: glad to see her daughter again, glad to see her happy and safe back north of the Neck, with a life that seemed to make her, if not happy, at least content, and so she nodded and, once her daughter was gone, lighted a candle for the Stranger and prayed, just as strongly as she had every day after the messenger heralding the death of her husband had come from the South.

***

It took her a long time before she had the strength to force herself to go back to Arya’s solar, but when she did she opened the door and entered the room with her head held high and her back as straight as a embroidery needle, like she had been taught by her septa since she was but a child: _“You are the firstborn daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my lady. You are _important_. Let them always see and remember it”_, the words of her septa came back to her mind, as she sat near her husband once again and locked her eyes with her youngest daughter. There was an understanding in Arya’s eyes that had never been there when she was a child, and Catelyn couldn’t but wonder how much her daughter had seen to have her wildness and hopes stripped from her to such a degree; to have such old eyes, in such a young face.

«Well, lets continue before my husband and my children arrive» Arya said, a hand on her prominent stomach and one on her back as she wandered towards the hearth: «Father hid Jon from Robert Baratheon by calling him his bastard, then when the blasted king came North and we separated Father found out that Jon Arryn was killed…» «By the Lannisters, yeah, we know that» Robb interrupted her, but she shocked her head for their surprise and said: «It was not the Lannisters. It was Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully who did it».

Various expressions of surprise and shock bloomed on her family’s faces – not on Bran’s, never on Bran’s – and she continued: «Lysa was in love with him and he convinced her to kill her husband to be together, then convinced Lysa to write a letter to mother where the mad woman accused the Lannisters. He started the whole conflict between our families». Catelyn once again didn’t know what to think: the lovable boy she had known in her youth would never had done anything like that, but life had a way to transform you in a monster, and hadn’t she been killed by monsters herself? «Father was accused of treasons when he found out that Cersei’s children were indeed bastards fathered by Jaime Lannister and he was murdered by damned Joffrey. I was found from Yoren and escaped King’s Landing hiding between the boys going to the Wall. Took me a few months, and got side-tracked a pair of times, but after the Hound kidnapped me I reached the Twins in time to see you all being slaughtered by the Freys and the Boltons» a new collective gasp from her family made her turn around, lock her Stark grey eyes in Robb’s Tully blue ones and said: «I killed them all, Robb. Winter came for House Frey». Her brother looked at her and then nodded, probably unable to say anything, unlike their Father: «How did you kill them all?».

Catelyn saw her daughter close her eyes, her hands on her abdomen, and then the young woman said: «After the Red Wedding the Hound brought me to the Eyre, but when we arrived there we found out that Lysa had died and we – or better, the Hound – was attacked by Brienne of Tarth that, at the time, was on a quest to find me and Sansa. It was then that I escaped to Bravos and there… I trained to become a Faceless Assassin» various intakes of hair stalled her for a moment, but Arya continued while Catelyn’s eyes got full of tears once again at the thought of her young, wild, beautiful Arya having to resort to murder to survive: _“I hope you’re burning in the deepest pit of hell, Cersei Lannister”_ Cat thought viciously, wanting to stand and embrace her girl, but not finding the strength to lift herself from the chair.

«I got back almost three years later, got inside the Twins while wearing the face of a servant girl and killed Black Walder and two other children of Old Walder, then I carved them and served them to Walder Frey in a pie. The old bastard died looking at my smiling face. Then I wore his face, called for a feast, brought all the male Freys still alive in the castle and served them poisoned wine. I watched them choke on their own blood. That’s when I found out that Winterfell was not in the hands of the Boltons’ anymore but that Jon and Sansa had won it back in the _Battle of the Bastards_, as they call it». Catelyn was sick in her stomach but, at the same time, a sense of vengeance and justice was awake in her, thinking of the man who smiled at the death of her son dying at the hands of her smiling daughter. She raised her eyes to see Arya staring at her, an emotionless expression on her face, if not for a terrible glint in her steely eyes, then her daughter said: «Baelish once told Sansa that there is no justice in this world, not unless we make it. For once he was right».

_Oh, Father above, bring me justice._ _Oh, Stranger, bring me vengeance._

Their conversation was interrupted once again when the door suddenly opened and a very tall and man with ink black hair and blue eyes came into the room: he was wearing simple clothes in black and white, with a black iron pin depicting a stag on his chest. He was a handsome man, with the bluest eyes she ever saw, a strong jaw and a nice straight nose, and it took Cat only a second to notice the striking resemblance between this young man and Stannis and Renly Baratheon, and so must have Ned, by his intake of air.

«Arya, Hot Pie told me that we had guests, you could have remembered me, I would have come to greet them earlier» the young man was saying, finally turning from where he was smiling at the little girl in his arms, but his smile froze when he saw _who_ his guests were: «King Bran? What the… _Lord Stark_?!».

«If I had known that my family was going to come back to life, I would have told you, Gendry» Arya said, while two children – a male and a female around six – reached for her. She then turned around to look at her family and started explaining: «Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon: this is my husband, Gendry Baratheon, son of King Robert. The girl in his arms is Argella, while those two are Eddard and Cassana. You already saw little Bran».

Catelyn smiled, noticing that her daughter had the same number of children she had given to Ned, and not thinking it a coincidence at all: «They’re so sweet, Arya».

«Try keeping them for one day and you won’t say it anymore» Arya said, her arms tightening around her children with a small smile.

«Why, are they as wild as you were?» Cat smiled to her youngest daughter, who shook her head: «They are not half as wild as me, but they all have the Baratheon temper, not only the looks».

And once again Catelyn thanked the Gods above, old and new, known and unknown, for the chance she was given today, to see her children once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, finally family meets family. It was a long and arduous chapter, in truth, as Catelyn is one of the character I really don't like in the series. I always thought that she had failed in many things, especially in educating her children. Robb did what he wanted and no one seemed to be able to stop him, Sansa is self-entitled and has the head full of songs, while Arya was a wild little thing who thought that was and fighting were great things. Yeah, not really the best education.  
Anyway, I also think that she did not deserve to die the way she did, and here she is, dealing with her failures and the lies of the life they had left behing more than ten years prior. Well, seems she is coming to reason to the things she is discovering, but we will see how this will proceed.  
Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter III: Robb – The Broken Man (The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives)

**Chapter III: Robb – The Broken Man (_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_)**

Robb Stark was starting to not understand anything anymore: waking up _alive_ after being killed and betrayed was already enough of a shock for one morning, without adding the knowledge that the world had started going backwards while he was dead. His little sister, Arya Underfoot, who never did as she was told, the girl who preferred to wear breeches to gowns and to train with a sword or a bow rather that sewing and embroidering, the same sister who had sworn she would become a knight and never marry was here, in front of him, lady of a keep, wife with children and apparently in a very easy relationship with her husband. Robb wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not, but if it was a dream, he hoped it would never stop, as the images of the Red Wedding – as Arya had called it - came slyly back to his mind, churning his stomach and constricting his heart so hard Robb thought it was going to stop once again. He couldn’t help the tiniest little bit of envy that hit him, while he looked at Arya with her husband and children: he had a wife once. _He had a baby coming to see the world too, once_. Arya was rounder and bigger than Talisa had ever been – _than Talisa was ever going to be_ – and his sister seemed to shine, now that her husband and children were here. But Robb, while jealous of her happiness, was also too happy for her to care about anything else and smiled at her, when she looked for him once again: «So, is the new one going to be named Robb, then?». Arya smiled and said: «There’s already a Robb Stark in Winterfell, two of them would be too much, don’t you think?».

Robb stopped breathing for a second, thinking of Sansa’s child, a boy named after him as his mother had named Robb for Robert Baratheon, too many years prior, and couldn’t help the wetness he felt on his face, when he started crying.

«Arya, I think that you forgot that Jon is coming tonight»

«Oh, shit!»

«Arya! Mind your words in front of your children!» Catelyn scolded her, Argella laughing lightly in her arms, soon followed by the rest of the room.

***

Sometime later, around time for supper, Robb was waiting anxiously for his brother – _cousin_, not brother – to finally arrive at Staghaven, pacing the length of Gendry’s solar, were they were going to have supper, as it was bigger and more formal that Arya’s: the solar was round, with a big hearth burning in the north side of the room, big windows were placed on the southeast side, granting a great amount of light during the early mornings; Baratheon banners were hung to the walls and a War hammer was showing itself over the hearth.

«That’s the hammer I used in the War for the Dawn, during the Long Night» Gendry said, coming to stop near him.

«It’s impressive, who made it?» Robb asked, looking at the stag detailed on the hammer.

«I did» Gendry smiled, turning to nod to Ned Stark who had came to stop to Robb’s other side.

«Your work is still just as impressive as I remember it, Gendry» his father almost smiled, a rare thing for him to do, but happiness was running in their blood like wine that day, and it seemed that even his stoic father was affected from it.

«Thank you, Lord Stark. I still work in the forge, it helps me think and I can be more useful than just by signing parchments and hearing people» the young man smiled, then turned when he heard the door open. Arya came in first, smiling slightly, followed by a man that, if Robb hadn’t had his father at his left, would have sworn it was Ned Stark: his face was almost the same, as it was the calm expression on it, but there was no correspondence on Ned Stark’s face for the scars on the man’s face. And, more importantly, Robb’s father would not have showed his shock quite so clearly for everyone to see; that was when Robb finally recognized his brother, Jon Snow.

_“No, not Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen”_ Robb thought, looking at his _cousin_, the man that had taken Winterfell back from the Boltons, that had saved his sister, rode on a dragon and fought against the Night's King and his army of death in the Battle for the Dawn. A living legend more than a man, just listening to all of it made Robb tremble. And Robb had been dead for all of it. _“I won’t let you down again. I won’t let this family down again”_ Robb silently promised, tears staining his face as Jon made his way towards him, a whisper of Robb’s name on his lips and tears in his eyes too.

«Robb! _Robb_» Jon sobbed, hugging Robb so tight that the young Stark was having problems breathing, but hugging him just as tightly Robb closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his brother’s arms around him. The next few minutes moved in a blur, Robb’s eyes full of unshed tears while Jon embraced Bran and Rickon and started sobbing over their heads, as Arya and her family watched in silence. Then Jon turned towards Ned and Cat and, as swift as had come, his joy receded, leaving him with a confused and bitter expression; for the surprise of everyone, Jon first looked at Catelyn and smiled at her, a small strained one, but one nonetheless: «I’m happy that you’re alive again, Lady Stark. Sansa will be happy to see you again».

Catelyn Stark looked so utterly shocked at his words that Robb almost laughed, if only he hadn’t been so sad: his brother, the one his mother had hated so much, was the kindest man Robb ever met, and his mother had not been prepared to deal with kindness where anyone else would have greeted her with hate at worst and harshness at best. Big tears started to fall from his mother eyes, and Robb had never seen her so distraught as the woman looked now, but then she smiled, a smile as small and strained as Jon’s, and whispered: «Thank you». Maybe, after all that hate, something good could be born between Catelyn Stark and Jon Snow. What Robb did not expect at all was the coldness with which Jon greeted their father – no, not _their _father, _his_ father – «_Lord Stark_» Jon murmured, then turning to his face to look at Argella, who was clinging to his leg, a toothy smile on her face, her blue eyes sparkling up at her uncle, who chuckled and bended to pick her up.

«Oh, no, _I so don’t think so_» Arya said, interrupting the cold and unpleasant air in the room, snatching her daughter from Jon’s arms: «You two are not going to keep your unfinished business over our heads: Bran brought them all back to life, Jon, and you and Father are going to _talk_ as you should have many years ago. Gendry, bring them to my solar, and _don’t you two dare come back_ until you solve your problems».

The three men got out of the door in silence, there was no fighting Arya’s orders, not with her expression so fierce and her eyes burning; Robb couldn’t help but think that probably that was how Eddard Stark and Aegon Targaryen were going to live the rest of their lives: not speaking with each other. In the silence that followed the exit of the three men, Arya turned around again, sitting herself in a chair far away from the hearth – the room still too hot after the tension from moments ago – then spoke: «Well, where have we stopped with my narration?».

«Mother! Mother, are you going to tell a story?» Cassana asked from Robb’s arms, while young Ned had found his way to Bran and Rickon’s side and were all studying each other as if they were strange animals – or ghosts, more probably.

«Aye, I am, Cass. Want to ask for something?» Arya smiled up to her daughter, while the others started sitting around the table, Catelyn and Robb with the two girls in their arms.

«The Battle of the Bastards!» Eddard, Cassana and Argella said at the same time, and Arya nodded, starting to talk of what she herself had not witnessed, but heard time and time again, both from her siblings and the people who had fought or witnessed the battle and lived to tell the tale.

***

Many hours later, when they were more near to the hour of the wolf than to the one of the owl and all the children had been put to bed hours earlier, soon followed by a Rickon as tired and stressed as Robb had rarely seen him, the Starks were all sitting together in front of the big hearth in Gendry’s solar – though Gendry was not here with them, probably thinking that they needed some time alone as a family, or maybe just too tired to deal with more of their come-back-to-life drama. Robb liked Gendry: there was an intensity to him, a strength, like a storm always brewing under the surface of his skin. And how could he not like the man who looked at his sister as if she was some kind of goddess? The one who hung stars and moon, probably, just by the sheer love and devotion in his gaze. And Arya seemed to look at him exactly the same way sometimes: as if the beating of her own heart depended on her husband sole presence.

Arya, Mother and Father were sitting on chairs, and while Jon and Bran sat on the ground near Arya, their heads touching her thighs, her hand in Bran’s red hair, and Robb was sprawled on the carpet in front of the hearth, not even trying to regain some composure. Silence reigned the room, no one quite knowing how to break it – or if to break it at all. It seemed that their family, a family who had always spoke of almost everything, with never a heavy silence between them, was damned to be silent for the rest of this second existence, plagued by lies and truths and betrayals alike. But what was bothering Robb the most was Arya’s eyes on him: she had been looking at him the whole day like she didn’t believe that he was quite there with them, like he was some kind of ghost plaguing her, more than any other member of their family was and in the end the Young Wolf couldn’t take it anymore and met her eyes demanding: «Why are you looking at me like I’m some kind of ugly ghost, Arya?».

Jon scoffed a bit, his thoughts on how they were all very much ghosts for him quite clear on his face, but Arya didn’t smile with him, she just kept staring at him, then said, in a voice so quiet that Robb almost missed it: «I could never remember your face». Robb felt his small smile fall, just as he saw Jon’s falling and his eyes closing, and tried to say something only to be interrupted by Arya: «Every time I tried to recall your face I only saw Grey Wind’s head sewn on your body, I remembered the screams of our bannermen and that damned song they were chanting, but never your face. Only the wedding, but your face was gone from my memory. They took that from me too: not only my mother and brother, but also my memory of you».

No one dared to speak, their mother face was wet of silent tears once again, her eyes fixed on something no one but her could see, Ned Stark was like a statue set in stone as he looked inside the flames if the hearth and Bran and Jon had their mouth tightly shut; in the end Robb found his voice and murmured: «But you killed them, didn’t you?».

«Aye, I did. I checked every keep. Every bed, nursery and cradle. I didn’t stop until I knew that no male Frey was still alive in Westeros» Arya answered, as cold and emotionless as the Wall itself, and for the first time Robb found himself truly scared by her: Arya survived, but her path back North was littered in blood and corpses. The corpses of those who betrayed and hurt their family, but corpses nonetheless. _And all because he had married the wrong woman_.

«Oh, Arya…» Robb found himself whispering, then arose and embraced his sister: he had wished to do it for so long, and yet had been denied it for just as long: «Thank you, Arya. Thank you».

Arya didn’t move from their embrace, no one moved for a long time, but then she sighed and said: «Let’s go to sleep: Gendry and Jon will depart together tomorrow, and Sansa will be here soon. Then we can decide what to do about you all and the God of Death». She guided them all to their rooms, but Bran went to sleep with Rickon and Robb didn’t feel like sleeping alone, so he shared with Jon the room with the biggest bed of the keep, usually used only for very important guests.

«Goodnight» they all whispered to each other and, no matter how they arrived there or how hard and painful their roads had all been, they smiled in saying something so simple and yet they thought lost forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes Robb of House Stark, the King of the North and the Trident, the Young Wolf, first of his name and bla bla bla bla.  
Too many names, like Dany lol  
Anyway, back to being serious, Robb was HARD to write, way harder that Cat, especially because we don't have his POVS in the book, so we have to understand him only through his actions and other people perspective - actually, just Catelyn, since no one else is there during the war. And we all know that Cat does not have the most impartial gaze on her precious children. But, while we have a sight of his thoughts and feelings, I also think that Robb would be very guarded, trying not to remember what has happened during the Red Wedding - most of all a show Robb, rather than a Jeyne one.  
The book Robb had married Jeyne cause she had been pushed in his bed by that bitch of her mother, but show Robb loved Talisa and married her for love only, and fuck the concequence. So yeah, I think show Robb would take the whole "Red Wedding" harder than book Robb. I don't know if I'm making any sense, if not tell me, I will try to explain myself again!  
Well, let me know what you think, see you soon!
> 
> Alasse


	5. Chapter IV: Rickon – The Wild Wolf (A time for Wolves will come again)

**Chapter IV: ** **Rickon – The Wild Wolf (_A time for Wolves will come again_)**

Rickon didn’t really know what was going on or how to address what was happening, but he knew that he wanted Shaggydog; he wanted his wolf back, the only one who had never left him, not like Mother, Father, Robb, Bran or his sisters did. Shaggydog was there until Lord Umber killed him – the black direwolf had took four of his men before going down – and Rickon had never felt as alone as he had after his wolf died. There was a hole in his heart, a piercing pain that never left him since then and that had returned with him from the death. The only thing keeping him from crying was his anger: he was angry at Lord Umber for killing Shaggy, he was angry at Mother and Father for leaving, angry at Robb for dying, and at Bran for going to the Wall. He was not angry at Sansa and Arya, though, because Robb had told him, before leaving, that they had been taken and couldn’t come back until they were saved. How could he be angry to his sisters, when he still remembered Arya being so sad at leaving Winterfell behind and Ramsay’s words about how he hurt Sansa? How could he be angry at them, when they were the only two who had tried to come back? He was not angry at Jon either, because Jon was there, Jon had tried to save him from Ramsay, not like Robb and Mother and Father.

None of them was there for him, only Jon. And Sansa, as Arya had said, but Rickon remembered Jon and his hand outstretched towards him as arrows fell from the sky. He remembered his brother despair the moment the pain had blossomed in his chest, the hurt and the anger in his grey eyes. And his sobs today, as he hugged him and Bran so tight he couldn’t breathe properly. Rickon remembered who was there and who was not, and he wasn’t going to let anyone forget that. When Bran joined him in the bed that night, not in the arms of Hodor but walking on his feet, Rickon could not refuse his brother embrace, however: he had waited so long to see any of his siblings and his parents again, he could not refuse their arms around him.

He could not refuse them. He will probably forgive them. But he was not going to forget that the only one there for him, when he had needed family the most, had been Jon.

***

The morning after Jon left as quickly and quietly as he had arrived, and Gendry followed him, promising to be back when the baby was due to be born: Arya wasn’t too happy to see both her brother and husband go, but she had too much to do to really think about it. It was a shock for most of the family to find out that Arya was the Master of Whispers of the North, so much power in just one girl’s hands, but at the same time they had noticed how different this new Arya was from the one they remembered; she was still wild, but in a different way from the one she had when she was barely a child: while she had been as ferocious and wild as her direwolf, always running around and never still, covered in mud more often than not, now she was totally different. As still as untouched water, she moved like she was dancing, even heavy with the baby, with a grace that spoke of years of training and practice. She seemed to always know if someone was around, as if even the air around them had no secrets for her. To some she would not have seemed wild at all, if they hadn’t looked well enough, but just one glance from her could make you understand that, under that soft pale skin and dark hair, was a beast, ready to tear apart everyone and anyone who dared cross her. _The Dark Wolf_, as some whispered in fear behind her, and it was true. She was wild, but knew how to mask it; dangerous, and she didn’t try to mask that at all.

Rickon didn’t care for any of it, however: he didn’t remember Arya much – and Sansa even less – but he remembered the fake fighting between them, his body over his sister’s as they wrestled in Winterfell’s courtyard or in the keep’s halls, and couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed at this new Arya, who never showed her wildness but only how dangerous she could be. He wasn’t scared of her, though; not like Robb had seemed for a moment the first time she had sneaked on him: Arya was dangerous, but they were _pack_. No wolf hurts its own pack, and Arya would not harm them. She would protect them even if she had to die to do it. Rickon knew it as well as he knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, that salmons lived in the sea during summer and came up the rivers to mate in winter, or that the Starks were the true lords of Winterfell.

He knew he was safe while Arya was near, and so he stayed near her all the time, no matter what she was doing: as long as he was with Arya nothing bad would happen to him. But he should have remembered that Arya was a lone wolf: pack or not she needed her space, and so at some point she literally put him out of her solar and ordered him to go to play with her children or Bran. And so Rickon did, even though he could hear her sniffle behind the heavy door, and made his way to the Godswood, where he knew he would find his family; they were all there, Robb was training with Eddard, Father narrating some tale to Cassana, who seemed to be drinking everything the man was saying; Mother was near, with little Argella and Little Bran in her arms and Old Bran, as they had started to call his brother to not confound between the two, was in front of the Heart Tree, doing only he knew what. Rickon ignored everyone else and reached for his brother, sitting near him in front of the Tree, feeling as if someone was observing them, and knowing with a security he never felt before, that it was the Old Gods, who were watching them. The question was if the Old Gods were only going to watch or if they were going to help, this time around.

Hours later, while they were eating in Arya’s solar once again, the discussions were going back and forward about what to tell the Lords of the North about them, how to tell the ones in the Six Kingdoms and so many other things that Rickon stopped listening, utterly uninterested in whatever problems they were going towards. Arya and Jon were there, so nothing bad was going to happen. «Rickon, you never told us how you escaped for so long» at some point Robb asked, taking him back from his daydreaming: Rickon turned to look at him and munched the rest of his mouthful under the careful gazes of his family, then said: «Osha was there, she brought me all the way to Lord Umber. We stayed there until… Until Lord Umber brought me to Ramsay». «Who is Osha?» his mother asked, and Rickon smiled thinking of the woman who had saved him, taught him how to hunt, to build a bow and use it. «Osha was one of the free folk!» he started narrating, but Mother interrupted him: «A wildling had you?». Catelyn gaze was hard, her lips pressed together so hard that they were white, and Rickon’s rage arose once again, exploding in a shout: «Osha was not just a wildling! _She died to protect me_! She was my mother more than you ever were!». He didn’t stop to see the tears streaming down his mother distraught face, nor at his Father calling his name, or Robb’s horrified expression: he stood up and ran out of the room, all the way back to his own and started to cry. The door quietly opened behind him, but he didn’t turn around, too sad over Osha and Shaggy’s death to care about anything else. Small but strong hands took him firmly for his shoulders and he found himself hugging Arya as tightly as he could; his sister smelled of trees and snow, of honey and fresh air, she smelled of the North and Rickon cried even more, because Osha had smelled just the same, no matter how much they had walked and sweated, Osha smelled of the North, of home, she had been home when he couldn’t remember his Father voice or his mother smile well enough. She was home and family when his brothers and sisters were not there for him. She had been his last refuge and hope, and Lord Umber had killed her in front of him with no piety nor regret: «Osha was not just a wildling! _She was not_!».

«I know, Rickon, I know. And I will always be grateful to her, for protecting you. And Mother will be too, when she hears the whole story» Arya murmured, her hand caressing his hair and her mouth on his cheek, near his ear.

«She won’t, she will hate her» Rickon cried, but Arya hugged him tighter and shook her head: «No woman can hate someone who saved her children, ever. Mother is tired, scared, angry and sad, Rickon. Give her time, and she will understand».

That night both Bran and Rickon slept with Arya in the lady’s bedroom.

***

It took three days for things to settle once again, as no one seemed to know what to say or what to do to and everyone but Arya seemed to be walking on eggshells around each other: the tension in the air was so thick that anyone could have cut it with a knife, and the whole keep seemed to pick it up and do everything possible not to leave their Lady – and wasn’t it funny, hearing them call Arya that – alone with them. If only they had known. That morning, however, things seemed calmer and they were once again walking in the Godswood, Robb running around with young Eddard and Cassana, Rickon hand in hand with Arya, when his sister suddenly stopped and looked around her, before calling her children back at her side. Robb and Bran followed, while Mother put herself and young Bran, back in her arms, near Father and Argella. The Godswood was still, nothing moved, not even the snowflakes were falling, like time had stopped existing, then Arya broke the silence: «Come out».

Just as silently as if it had not been there at all an enormous direwolf with dark grey fur and amber eyes came out of the thick weirdwood: it was the biggest Rickon had ever seen, bigger than Shaggydog had been when he died, and it moved as if nothing preoccupied it, as if it was the strongest beast in the keep and it knew it.

«Nymeria? Why are you here, girl?» Arya asked, walking towards the direwolf with her hand outstretched towards the wolf, who sniffed it before licking it. Arya smiled a bit, then the wolf started sniffing her hair and all over her stomach. It was some kind of force that brought Rickon to move forward, towards his sister and her wolf, just for the beast to point its amber eyes on him and bypass his sister to come slowly near him. The wolf moved slowly, as if with a movement too quick Rickon might flee – and a normal boy would have turned and ran, just to die the second the wolf reached for him – but Rickon was a Stark, and Starks were wolves. Rickon was the Wild Wolf of Winterfell, a title that one of his father’s bannermen had bestowed on him after some display of wildness of the boy that had been barely three at the time, and he wasn’t scared of Arya’s direwolf. So, he lifted his hand for the wolf to smell and, after a bemused sniff, Nymeria was on him, licking his face and barking like a pup. Laughs came from behind him and Bran and Robb joined him, for the wolf’s joy, who barked even louder and wag its tail excitedly.

At some point the wolf started looking around, as if searching for something, then turned to Arya with a low whine, and the young woman had a sad grimace on her face: «They are not here, girl. Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggy are not here. I’m sorry». The excitement seemed to dissipate in a second, just as quickly as it had come, but then a timid sound of soft barks and snapping of branches under small paws came from behind his sister, who turned around and gasped louder than Rickon remembered ever hearing her. That was when he saw four pups coming out from the trees: three grey ones – one dark grey, one with honey streaks on his fur and ears, and one so pale to seem just a shade darker than white – and one as black as the darkest night with bright green eyes. Rickon started running without noticing that his brothers had done the same, one thought in his mind and one word on his lips: «_Shaggydog_!» he screamed, literally tackling the black pup and embracing him tightly. Robb was crying at his right, murmuring _Grey Wind_ over and over, while Bran had his arms around Summer and was looking in the wolf eyes with the happiest expression Rickon ever saw on his brother since he had fallen. Arya had her arms around the last pup, and she and Father were looking at it with sadness and joy in their gaze, and a murmured _Lady_ on their lips.

Mother was sobbing behind them, but when Rickon turned to look at her a big smile was on her face and utmost joy in her eyes, Arya’s children around her and young Bran in her arms; Rickon couldn’t stop, he got on his feet and brought Shaggydog, who was trying to wiggle in his arms like crazy, in front of her with a smile, even though he could taste his tears on his lips. «Look, Mother, Shaggy came back too!» he said, and Catelyn looked at him with her eyes as blue as the rivers far north in Lord Umber lands, and smiled: «I see him, Rickon. I see them all, thank the Gods».

Osha wasn’t back, and Rickon was going to be forever sad about it, but Shaggy and his family were, and maybe things were going to be good and happy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And #ops  
Well, here we are, at chapter five, and I'm pretty sure that you have more questions than answer, but that's exactly how I want you. Wondering.  
Anyway, Rickon was really hard but really beautiful to write: he is still a child, barely eleven in the tv series, and yet he also has had to grow up quite quickly and and deal with the scars of seeing your family disappear in front of you from one day to another. He had a happy family and home, but in less than a year he had nothing left apart from Shaggy and Osha, and that must have had some impact on him. And let's not dwell on what Ramsay might have done to him when Smalljon gave him to save his stupid ass.   
So yeah, tell me what you think! See you soon :)


	6. Chapter V: Jon – Lord Snow (The North Remembers)

**Chapter V: Jon – Lord Snow (_The North Remembers_)**

Jon still couldn’t believe what he had seen, what he was seeing right now: it seemed to him a cruel jest, something the Gods were putting in front of him, at arm’s reach, just to snatch it back and leave him struggling to breath and in pain once again. But Jon couldn’t help thinking that it would be worth any pain, any desperation, any sleepless night, just to have a few moments more with his brothers and father. That having shared one more impossible hug with Robb was worth anything that may come later, any ache, any distress and agony was worth any moment the Gods may give them. And yet, heartbreak seemed to be at Jon’s doorstep once again, taking its time to get in, stressing him as few things ever did in his life, and utterly there, ready to tear a new wound on his battered heart.

Gendry opened the door, letting him and Father – no, not his father, but not less loved in Jon’s heart – inside Arya’s solar, then murmured: «I will be back in one hour. Jon», the White Wolf couldn’t help looking at the man who had become one of his best friends in the last ten years, his eyes the bluest blue Jon ever saw, and so very honest while speaking: «Arya once told me, before little Ned was born, that she would have traded all her tomorrows for just one yesterday with your family. You have an occasion that was never – and probably ever will be again – given to anyone else. Don’t waste it being angry». Gendry left and closed the door behind him before Jon could even think of a retort, leaving him alone with the man he had most hoped and most dreaded to ever see again: Eddard of House Stark. The Quiet Wolf, as many still called his father, years after his unjust death, a man who was a terror on the battlefield, but a silent man in his day to day life. So different from the older brother who should have been the North Lord, so wild and temperamental, and yet probably much more loved, for that same reason. The most honourable Ned Stark, who had been betrayed by those he had served faithfully for years, beheaded as a traitor by an inbred bastard lion hiding his barely formed claws behind false horns. The Warden of the North, so beloved by his people that the northern lords started a rebellion and claimed independence after three hundred years under southern kings. The man whose death that was the beginning of all the horrible things that happened to his family. That was a hard thing to say to a father, Jon knew it, and hoped to avoid most of it in this conversation, needing way more ale in his blood before he could speak about all of the world’s depravity and cruelty with his father. Because that’s who that man was, was he not? His father, the man who had taught him honour and compassion, duty and sacrifice; the man who had battled every day with his wife to keep the boy she thought his bastard with him, in the home of his mother, safe and far away from the hands of those who had murdered the rest of his family. The man who could have left him to die, and yet called him his son claiming a dishonour not his, just for the love of a sister barely cold. And if Jon was who he was today, that was because of Eddard Stark: how could he not love this man? Yes, he was angry at him, for the secrets and the pain, but he was _alive_ because of this man. He had a chance at life, because this man put family before his own honour. «Thank you» Jon rasped, him mouth parched by stress, his throat closed by anxiety and his eyes wet of joy and pain.

His father eyes were seemingly wet, his face stretched in a strenuous smile, when he mouthed: «For what?».

«For saving my life. For taking me in, and not leaving me alone in the world. No one would have biased you, but you didn’t. You gave me a home, and brothers and sisters and I will forever be grateful». His father seemed lost, not knowing what to say or do, and Jon smiled knowing that his expression couldn’t be that different. Then Jon shook his head and asked: «Why not telling us from the beginning? Why not telling Lady Catelyn, at the very least?».

«I didn’t know her well enough, back then: I had seen her only once in my life, the night we married and conceived Robb. I can say we didn’t exchange more that 10 words that night, not counting the wedding vows. How could I trust her with such a secret I didn’t even tell my own brother? No, no one could know, or it would have passed from secret to information, and then all our lives would have been at the mercy of Robert, who had none for the Targaryens and those who harboured them».

«Yeah, King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, who forgave the murder of children, as long as they had the right surname» Jon almost spitted after that, thinking of his half-brother and sister, killed by the Mountain; of their mother, raped and defiled, and his grandmother, who died without being able to see her children to safety. All because of Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen impulsivity and love.

_Love is the death of Duty_. That phrase had followed him since the day Maester Aemon had whispered it to him, shaped the way he continued his life, with Ygritte first and Daenerys later. He put duty before love because that’s what his father would have done. What Robb had not, and it got him and his mother killed. What would have happened if Robb had married Roslin Frey, or any Frey girl, instead of Talisa Maegyr? Would Robb have won the war then, or would he have lost anyway? Had he not put love in front of duty, what would have happened to Arya and Sansa? Would they have suffered as much? Would Arya have gone to Braavos, had Robb and Lady Stark not died? Would Sansa have escaped from Littlefinger and, so, from Ramsay? But then, had Arya not gone to Braavos, no one would have killed the Night King, so nothing of it really mattered, because they would be all dead now. As Bran had told them once, everything had happened for a reason. And yet Jon couldn’t help but begrudge the Gods and any being, immortal or not, who had a hand in his family sufferings. No matter how much Lady Stark had hated him, back in Winterfell, she had not deserved to die thinking all her children were dead. No matter how much Robb had fucked up with Talisa, he had not deserved to die in that horrible way. Arya, Bran, Sansa and Rickon had not deserved to suffer as much as they did. They had been summer children, all of them, and they had paid the price for it. Jon was tired though, tired of suffering, tired of looking in every shadow, expecting betrayal and murder, pain and sufferings. He was tired, and maybe this was how the Gods were answering his prayers, but he knew it couldn’t be this simple. Yet, simple or not, Jon was going to take all of it and keep his family out of harm’s way. No matter what he would have to do to it: the Starks had paid whatever debt the Old Gods thought they had. They had paid it in full, and the North remembers. And Jon of House Stark was going to bring winter to whoever forgot it.

«I have just one question» Jon said, and Ned nodded, sitting down in front of the hearth, followed by his son: «Were you ever going to tell me?».

«I… Yes, yes I would have. But only after you had taken your vows to the Night’s Watch» Ned admitted, a shadow coming over his face, knowing full well what his phrase meant; «Because you knew I would never betray my oath, Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen. I would have stayed my whole life there, and never utter a word of it».

«Yes, I knew you would have, and I was going to use it against you. I’m sorry, Jon. I truly am, but I promised to keep you safe, and that was the only way. Only hidden away from everyone, you would have been able to have a life. Not happy maybe, not the one you deserved, but one nonetheless».

Jon could only nod at his father’s words, as acceptance overcame him, in the same way it always had, in front of this man: Jon had always had the belief that his father was always right, and it was a conviction that had only grown after his death. Ned Stark was always right, and that’s why nothing bad had ever happened while he was alive. Yet, a part of him – the Targaryen one, as Sansa and Arya had joked a pair of times – was angry. Utterly and undoubtedly furious at how much had been taken from him by this man lie: his birthright, his choices, his family that he could have reached before all of this had happened. It could have been so much better, and so much worse. Or would have? Would have he been happy, or someone would have sold him to Varys or Robert Baratheon? And then what? Another war, that was what was going to come. Either one of conquer or one of survival. No, some things were better to be forgotten, and the Targaryens and their madness and cruelty was one of them. He was the last of that House, everyone knew it, and everyone knew that he was never going to have Targaryen children. The Iron Throne was gone, and with it – hopefully – the wheel had really been broken.

A stab of pain came to him suddenly at the thought of Daenerys, young and kind Daenerys, who had not deserved all she had suffered and whose mind had broken under all she had lost. There was no doubt, in Jon’s mind, that the young girl would never have gone mad, had Jorah and Missandei and Rhaegal not died. Daenerys had lost every person dear to her and she had given in to wrath. Jon still cried for that young woman, hoped that she was in a better place, with the mother she had never met, somewhere where her suffering was finally over, because she deserved it.

«Jon?» his father voice stopped his thoughts, and he raised his head, to look the older – but not so much anymore – man in the eyes: «Jon, what happened to Arya? She seems so… different».

«Arya… Saw and did a lot of terrible stuff, Father. She is different because she had to be, if she wanted to survive» Jon said, not knowing how much Arya had told them and not wanting to say anything that she didn’t want them to know. Father nodded choppily, his face a mess of emotion, and his eyes glinting of something Jon had never seen in this man gaze: _hate_.

***

That night, sprawled on the bed with Robb at his left, in the same bed like they hadn’t done since they were seven or eight, none was sleeping, still reeling on the feeling of being alive, and here, together: Jon’s heart kept beating faster than normal, as if trying to keep his happiness under control, and his mind kept buzzing, his eyes checking every once in a while that his brother was still there, and feeling a bit ashamed, every time he was caught. «Maybe it wasn’t a good idea, sharing the room. We’re not exactly sleeping» Robb murmured after an eternity, and Jon smiled: «Why, would you have slept alone?».

«No, probably not. I don’t think I will ever sleep again, I keep closing my eyes and see that damn wedding feast and Talisa dead on the ground».

«I’m sorry, Robb, I should have been there».

«I’m grateful you weren’t: you would have died, and no one would have been there to fight the Night’s King. Gods, the Night’s King… I still can’t believe it. How did you kill him?».

«I didn’t. It was Arya».

«… What? _Arya_?!».

«Yes? She didn’t tell you?».

«No, just said you fought and won. I think everyone of us thought that _you_ killed him».

«No, I was fighting a dragon wight, she did it, and then slept like a log for something like twelve hours».

«… A dragon wight» Robb murmured, his tone flat in astonishment.

«Yeah, ugly thing that, almost had me».

«I’m almost happy I was dead».

«Sometimes I wished I was. But I knew I had to do all I could, cause no one else was going to» Jon answered, his eyes beginning to close, tired beyond belief by today’s surprises. He fell asleep almost instantly, soon followed by Robb.

***

«Where are you going first?» Arya asked him the next morning, so early that half the castle was still asleep, and the sun had still not arose from behind the mountains east of Staghaven. «I’m going to Sansa in Winterfell, to tell her to come here as soon as she can. Then I will stay there until she returns, hopefully soon, so I can travel to Moat Cailin to reach your husband there. We need to finish rebuilding the fortress as soon as we can, now more than ever, with what happened with _them_».

«Yeah, the South won’t be happy with Bran mysteriously dying and reappearing here, eleven years old again» Arya mused, her eyes looking towards the south wing of the keep, where their suddenly come-back-to-life family was still very much asleep, then continued: «We need Moat Cailin strong: the rest of the Neck is protected by House Reed, and Meera and her father will never let anything pass; that fortress is the only hole, the only way in, and it has to be _impenetrable_. The Starks of old could stand at Moat Cailin and throw back hosts ten times the size of their own, we need to be able to do the same».

«The fortress is complete, we just need to finish the wall and the great gate» Jon nodded, getting on his horse, while Gendry came down from the stairs, after finishing speaking with the steward.

«I want it to be _solid_, don’t work faster if it’s going to make it weaker» Arya said, and turned for her husband, who embraced her tightly and murmured: «I will be back when the baby is born».

«Be back when your job is finished, the baby and the children need Moat Cailin to be secure. You will see him soon anyway».

«The baby is a girl, Arya» Gendry smiled, hopping on his black northern stallion, but his wife shook her head and said: «The baby is a _boy_».

«A girl».

«_A boy_!».

«Let’s go, we will know in a fortnight what the baby is» Jon smiled, turning his white horse towards the gate, followed by the small party that accompanied him from Winterfell, dressed in the colours of House Stark, and Gendry and his men dressed in the black and white of the House Baratheon.

A long ride waited for them, but Jon was preoccupied by something else: he smelled trouble and war brewing from the South, and he knew his instinct wasn’t failing him. They needed to be ready to defend from whoever was mad enough to bring an army up from the Neck during the coldest winter of the last century. And he was going to bring winter to whoever dared attack his family.

_With Fire and Blood, if necessary_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yeah, Lord Snow is here!  
My gosh, this chapter was... I want to say "hard" but it was the second simplest to write after Arya's, so yeah, no, not hard at all.  
Jon is probably easy to write compared to Robb or Rickon, since we have his povs in the books, but at the same time he is a very strange character, striving towards only Martin knows what, so yeah, here he is.  
Jon Snow of House Stark. We see a new Jon in this chapter though, an older Jon, who came to terms to much of the stuff he did and didn't, and who accepts himself much more than during the war.  
Sincerely I don't know what else to say, so yeah, tell me what you think!  
See you next week!


	7. Chapter VI: Bran – The Three-eyed-Raven (I will teach you to fly)

**Chapter VI: Bran – The Three-eyed-Raven (_I will teach you to fly_)**

Bran had _feelings_. And it was, quite literally, the worst thing ever since he had fallen from the broken tower of Winterfell, way too many years ago. Being the Three-eyed-raven had kept him from really feeling anything for what happened to him or around him for years, therefore, the sudden return of feelings, like fear and jealousy and wrath, was, well, _hell_. He didn’t know how to deal with any of it: all the sadness, the pain, the loneliness, despair and loss were hitting him again and again, and he was starting not to understand his own heart anymore. He remembered the day he had fallen as if it was yesterday, and not years prior: he remembered the eyes of Jaime Lannister as he smiled at him – that sick, sweet, _terrible_ smile – before letting go of his hand. But he also remembered the Jaime Lannister that he had met just a few days before the Battle for the Dawn, a man changed, who had been repentant for his actions: the Three-eyed-raven didn’t care much for Jaime Lannister, nor the fact that he couldn’t walk – he could _fly_, what need can you have for legs, when you have wings? – but Bran now couldn’t help but feel angry at that man who had changed his life and destiny so utterly, without thinking twice on it. The Raven had been always sure that all happened for a reason, that every death, every victory, every action and inaction had happened to bring them all in the battle against the Night’s King, and to win against him. Bran was not so sure anymore: what number of things could have gone better, had them been prepared? How many people would be alive today, had the living been warned of the threat? The questions wouldn’t leave his mind, no matter how many times and how hard he tried to banish them, and once again Bran had found himself in front of the Heart Tree of Staghaven: this Heart Tree was just as old and big as the one in Winterfell, though the Godswood was smaller, and the white wood, the red leaves in the shape of hands and the face carved in the trunk made Bran feel better and worse at the same time. He had always believed in the Old Gods, no matter that Mother, Sansa and Septa Mordane followed the new ones, he and Arya and Robb and Jon had followed the same gods as their father and found in the Godswood a place of comfort when everywhere else in Winterfell failed them.

And Bran fell in his old habits like a well-worn glove, the moment he was back alone in his body. He still didn’t know why the Three-eyed-raven had accepted to let him try this folly, bringing his family back to life – did he want more knowledge? More power in case he ever needed it? Did he not like how insistent and stronger Bran was getting, day after day after day? Or was there something else, something he had seen even before getting into Bran, and not shared with him purposefully? – but he was glad he had done it, after all the pain and loneliness his family was here once again, and this time Arya, Sansa and Jon were going to defend them. Nothing could pass Sansa anymore, his sister had become the most ruthless and able player of the game of throne, and it was a certainty that no threat to the North or her family would pass undetected under her nose. And if something somewhat managed to escape her, Arya was going to cover her, with her knowledge and will to destroy anything that could possibly harm any of them. If Bran thought about it, Jon was almost useless in front of his sisters’ prowess.

His thoughts got interrupted by the advancing of voices and barks: abruptly he felt a small body push his way between his arms, and then Summer was licking his face as if there was no tomorrow. On his other side Nymeria appeared, her nuzzle in his neck, tickling him with her warm breath. «Bran? Are you alright?» the boy turned at his sister’s question, seeing her in a position similar to the one she had found them not more than a week prior: clad in a dark furred coat, her hair in a simple long braid and surrounded by white snow, his sister truly resembled his aunt to an astonishing level. And yet, where his aunt had been a happy young girl with dreams of great love, not too dissimilar from how Sansa had been at her age, his sister was a woman grown, with memories of atrocities and a forever guarded gaze in her steely eyes.

«I’m alright, Arya. I was praying» he answered, just to see her gaze get clouded and her lips thinner: «How can you pray them I don’t understand, Bran. They never cared, never listened and never answered».

«They cared, but they learned early on to stay out of human matters. You believe in them, though, don’t you?».

«I believe. Like I believe in the New ones and the Red God. But they are not my gods anymore» Arya said, looking at the Tree with barely hidden contempt. «You pray the Many-Faced-One now, don’t you?» Bran asked, even though he knew the answer.

«Aye, I do. But I won’t give him my children, if that’s your next question. That said, the Many-Faced-God will always have my hand and my sword. And I have a debt with him now. We need to give him four names, as you didn’t pay».

«The Old Gods didn’t tell me about needing more than one life».

«Did you ask? And was it the Old Gods you were speaking to, or the Raven?» Arya questioned him, an intense look in her eyes, as if she was putting together the pieces of a puzzle. «The Raven, why?» Bran asked, petting Summer on his head.

«Do you remember Old Nan’s words? “All Ravens are-”» «_Liars_» Bran finished her phrase, looking again at his sister with wide eyes: «Do you think he lied? From the very beginning?».

«I think the Night’s King wanted him dead for some reason, and he needed you to get to Winterfell. Then he let you do this… thing with magic, and I think he wanted you to do it. If he hadn’t wanted, none of you would be here now» Arya sad, a dark shadow passing on her face.

«You think it was his plan all along, to send me back? To send us all?» Bran couldn’t quite conceive such thing: what would have the Raven gained from all of this? What could possibly come from such plot?

«I don’t know, but I don’t trust what I don’t know and don’t understand. The God of Death is simple: he wants people to die. What can a Raven want after he got a throne over six kingdoms and all the lives within? What more power can there be to achieve, after that? Does he even care about power, or is it searching for something else entirely?». Brother and sister stared at each other, deep in thought, then turned to look at the Heart Tree, whose face seemed to be even more distressed than it had before. Something was going on, something that they were not going to like, Bran could feel that, but _what_ would befall them, that only the Gods knew.

***

Later that day, after freezing his arse off in the Godswood, he went to Arya’s solar, knowing that he would find her there working and managing Staghaven: Arya’s wilfulness to settle down at the end of the war had surprised him a great deal, since he had always saw her sail towards the west of Westeros, and die there. He had never told her, that she would have died had she sailed, the Raven convinced that everything happened for a reason and that only Arya herself should chose her destiny. And yet, after Edric, Bella and Mya Baratheon had returned from where they were sent hiding in Essos by Varys to escape Cersei and Stannis, his sister had seemingly just got up one day, his visions of her drowning in the salt water of the Sunset Sea gone – and for a useless search, as west of Westeros was only Essos ­–, and decided to marry the man she had loved all her life. He didn’t know what had spurred the change of heart in Arya, if it had been her talk with Jon or the one with Sansa or even something else, and yet he had been happy beyond words – and comfort, for the Three-Eyed-Raven – when his visions of death had transformed in ones of life and happiness. His sisters deserved happiness more than anyone else in the world, and Bran wanted it for them. He entered the room without knocking, which earned him a stern glance from Arya, who was currently pouring herself on letters and reports of all sort: «What is it, Bran?».

«Nothing, I just wanted to stay here. May I?» he asked, sitting in a chair near the fire, Nymeria briefly raised her head, before huffing and returning to watch the fire, accepting Summer presence as the little puppy all but launched himself at her.

«You ask if you may, but you seat yourself as if you are the lord here. You should remember you’re not king anymore, _Bran_» Arya smiled, dipping the quill once again in the black ink and signing a small parchment, to then set it aside: the piles of documents on the table seemed infinite, almost as much as he had once had in his own solar, what seemed a lifetime ago, even though it had been just a few months since his death.

«I was never King in the North anyway» Bran smiled, looking as Arya took the next parchment and started to read it: «Do you need a hand?»

«No, you would not be familiar with most of this numbers and people, anyway. Are you here for some reason, or you really just wanted to see my ugly face?».

«You’re not ugly, you are aunt Lyanna reborn» Bran said, then noticed his sister jaw tightening a bit at the comparison: «Why that face?».

«Nothing, but I’ve revalued her story a lot, since you told us of Jon’s true parentage. We were told that she was taken, and raped, but then we found out that she went of her own volition with a married man, breaking her promise to House Baratheon, and married said already married man, while her brother and father died terrible deaths for it, not counting all the other thousands of men and women who died during the war. I think she was selfish, and I don’t like to be reminded that I resemble her».

A terrible thought passed Bran’s mind and he muttered: «Did you get back North and married Gendry because you didn’t want to be like aunt Lyanna?».

«I married Gendry because _I love him_, and I convinced him to come north with me because we were lucky enough that Edric Storm was still alive. The lords of the Stormlands knew Edric, he had grown up in Storm’s End, and the stormlords liked him, some even loved him already, and the northerner lords liked and approved of Gendry. Everyone won with that, me especially. Anyway, yes, I got back North because I had a duty to our House, a duty no one else could do: Sansa didn’t trust any man to look at her, let alone touching her; Jon had just been sentenced to the Wall – ludicrously, and you know it, may the Gods damn Tyrion Lannister and Grey Worm – and you were staying in the South and could not have any children. I _had_ to marry and have children, or it would have been like letting that damn whore of Cersei Lannister win all the way from whichever hell she’s squatting in, and that was _never going to happen_. So, _yes_, Brother. I had a duty and I kept to it, unlike our beautiful, kind, wilful aunt Lyanna».

«Aunt Lyanna loved Rhaegar -» Bran tried to say, just to be interrupted by an increasingly pale Arya, who hissed: «Many women loved other men rather than their husbands, but they did their duty anyway. Rhaella Targaryen didn’t love her brother Aerys but married him and stood at his side through all his abuses. Aunt Lyanna was a spoiled girl who could not even be bothered to leave a damn letter behind, and thousands paid for it, starting with Grandfather, uncle Brandon, Elia Martell and her innocent children».

«And yes, maybe Rhaegar was more at fault than her, since he was married and the heir to the Iron Throne, but that doesn’t excuse her _at all_» Arya finished, letting the parchments in her hands fall on the table as she arose and moved to the high windows, looking outside with a deep frown on her face. Bran understood that his sister had judged aunt Lyanna and nothing was going to change her mind – and not that he wanted to change it, as he thought more or less the same of the young woman whose actions had shaped their family and the whole Westeros way more profoundly that the long dead girl had ever even thought. A long silence followed, and just when Arya was about to get back to her work, paces came towards the door and a light knock resounded in the silent room. «Come in!» Arya called, standing near the head of the table; an old maid with pale brown hair twisted in a widow’s knot and eyes of the colour of the Trident grass in spring came in, curtsied and announced: «Riders from the East Gate, my lady: they have the banners of House Stark».

«The Queen has finally arrived, send for the Master-at-arms and-» a groan stopped her from finishing her phrase, as she putted her hands on her abdomen and a pool of water was suddenly on the pavement under her feet.

«My Lady!» the maid almost screamed advancing quickly, but Bran steadied Arya and ordered: «Call for the Maester, _now_!».

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes another chapter, and with it some more explanations and character's depth. I choose to concentrate on Bran and Arya because, first of all, I wanted to talk more about Arya, her choises, why she's here in the North and not somewhere at the bottom of the Sunset Sea.  
And I wanted to show some light on Arya's and Bran's bond: We all know that Arya's favourite brother is Jon, but I think the second best for her should be Bran, as they are the two with less difference in age (after Jon and Robb): it is very much probable, though we didn't saw much of it, that Arya and Bran passed a long time together, being very close in age. Probably learned to read and write together, and stuff like that, so I think they would be very much close.  
That said, let's move on a more "hot" topic that we find in the chapter: Lyanna Stark. I will start by saying that it is my headcanon that, in the books, Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Lyanna and nothing but the true written somewhere in the last two books will change my mind. Second, as that is not the case of "Show Lyanna", I must admit that the latter one is one of the most selfish characters of the show, and that Arya and the other "living" Starks - minus Jon - think the exact same.  
Now, I hope you liked the chapter! Tell me what you think, I'm really interested on it all!  
See you next week!


	8. Chapter VII: Sansa – Little Bird (And she never wanted to leave)

**Chapter VII: Sansa – Little Bird (_And she never wanted to leave_)**

The sun was high in the sky when her party finally came near the walls of Staghaven, after the long days of hard riding she had put Brienne and the others through: the new four towers of the keep stood high against the sky, the black stags on each one pointing to each of the cardinal points; where the old Dreadfort had been a big and low building, completely covered by its walls, Staghaven had been rebuilt in height to accommodate way more people that the Dreadfort had ever housed. She could also see, though barely, the highest point of the Stag Sept, as the people called it, where a bright coloured seven-pointed star glittered in the calm noon sun. Baratheon banners, with the black prancing stag on a snow-white field, moved quietly in the soft wind coming from the south – barely a few degrees hotter than the air in the north, but just enough to make the trip more comfortable. The grey stones of Staghaven greeted her in a show of a well kept keep, the signs of the fire they had lightened years prior to flush out the last few Bolton loyalists from these very walls barely visible anymore. A lone Stark Banner was hung on the walls of the south tower, where she knew her sister had her solar, the only reminder that the lady of the keep had not changed her name in her husband’s one after the marriage. Arya had told her once that she had passed too many years being other people but Arya of House Stark, and that she was not going to give up her name after fighting to get it back, not even for Gendry. Some of the older lords had grumbled a bit, when Gendry had announced _Lady Arya Stark of House Baratheon of the North_ in Winterfell’s Godswood, but the younger ones and the ladies of the Houses had wholeheartedly supported the choice. Even more so when, years later, Sansa’s own husband had taken her name instead of keeping his own, after their marriage. It was a time of changes in the North, whose people were very attached to their tradition, but knew when to leave something behind and take up something new, to ensure survival. Hard people, the northerners, used to harsh winters and to even harsher decisions, in order to survive. Here winter was always coming, one after another, and the people started preparing for the next one the moment spring started. There was no space for fools and idiots in these terrible and beautiful lands and once again Sansa asked herself why her father had raised his children as fools, instead of northerners: had he really not seen how foolish and foolhardy Robb and Sansa had been? How Arya was not even the slightest aware of how to behave in any type of company? The best of his father children had been Bran, and all of them had paid the consequences for that.

A horn sounded from the gatehouse of the rapidly approaching keep, and the Queen of Winter, as the people had started to call Sansa not too much time prior, saw unease and antsy movements from the guards on the walls; entering the courtyard did nothing to change her impression, as she saw the people scurry around with fretful manners and looks of badly concealed fear: the moment she saw that only Ser Rendall Saller and Jory Lanser, the Master-at-arms and the Steward of the keep, were in the courtyard to greet her she _knew_ that something was wrong. Sansa dismounted from her white mare, not waiting for the help of Brienne, and marched to Ser Saller and Lanser, commanding in her coldest voice: «Bring me to my sister, _now_».

If outside the keep things had seemed strange and not reassuring at all, inside people seemed to run from one side of the keep to the other like fretful ants trying to salvage their anthill after some child had crushed it, which was even less reassuring. If Sansa had been uneasy before, now she was certainly worried and damned herself once again for not have come immediately to see what Arya had defined just as an “_urgent matter that you have to oversee personally_”. She had wanted a bit more time with her children, knowing how much time would take her to travel from Winterfell to Staghaven and then back, but now she regretted it wholeheartedly. She thought that Jon would deal with anything happening there, as he had been already on his way for their sister’s keep, but he had returned pale, preoccupied and with a whispered _“Get there as soon as you can, Sansa”_. Sansa had departed the day after, and now she, Brienne and Ser Lanser were almost running to the south wing, then upstairs, all the way to the upmost floor of the southern tower, where the birthing room had always been arranged during all Arya’s pregnancies – far away from the nursery and the rooms of the family, to not disturb or scare the other children – and dread settled definitely on Sansa’s stomach. Arya would not even look at the birthing room, even less enter it, unless she was actually _having the baby_, but that was not possible, was it? It would be at least two weeks early. Voices came from inside the room, and for a moment Sansa thought she heard Robb’s laughter, strong and booming as it had before the war, but she just shook her head and opened the door, without knocking, in a show of very poor manners in front of her sister’s steward. What she found inside shocked her wits out of her: Sansa felt her mouth fall open and her eyes widen, while her hair stood on their ends, ready to tear themselves from her head. Robb was there. _Robb was there. And Mother, Father, Rickon and Bran._

How many times had she dreamed of such an image? How many times had she cried and despaired, hoping for her parents and brothers at her side, only to find shades and ghosts, pain and anger in their place? Her eyes met Arya’s, who smiled and nodded, and Sansa was calm once again, controlling her voice and schooling her features, before saying: «Thank you for accompanying me and Brienne here, Steward Lanser» with a nod towards the man, who bowed and closed the door behind her. The silence in the room was astonishing in its own right, but Sansa felt her mouth parched like the desert of Dorne and her mind as frozen as the Wall. Everyone in the room was watching her, even Brienne, who suddenly bowed and got out of the door: the woman was as pale as a ghost, but probably thought that the family wanted some privacy, even though Sansa wanted to run more than she wanted privacy.

«Sansa…» Lady Catelyn called, tears streaming from her eyes, and Sansa found herself running to her mother as she had only done with Jon, many years prior: «Mother! _Mother_!» she almost screamed, finding herself in the woman’s arms and feeling, more than hearing, her sobs. «Oh, Sansa, my sweet Sansa» her mother cried, embracing her oldest daughter as tightly as she had held every other of her children since she had returned, her relief visible at finally see them all under one roof. Once her mother let go – all too soon, in Sansa’s opinion – Father’s arms came around the girl who found herself crying twice as hard. She had missed this man dearly: his simplicity, his kindness, his teachings and his quiet voice. She still remembered clearly as it was yesterday the day Joffrey Hill ordered his head cut, and she still remembered her pain, when she had seen it roll on the pavement of the Great Sept.

After her parents, it was Robb’ and Rickon’s turn and the latter all but throw her on the pavement, when he launched himself at her, causing the others to laugh hard. It was then that Sansa’s eyes stopped on Bran, whose smile was so bright it was almost blinding, after the years in which his brother face did not take any expression at all: «Bran? Are you… Are you _Bran_?» she asked, her voice trembling under the hope and dread at the answer, but her brother kept smiling and answered: «I’m only Bran».

She smiled, though a part of her wanted to question her brother – because she _knew_ that this was his doing, that it was him who had managed all this from the very beginning – but the softest bark made her turn around, only for her to freeze once again. There a direwolf puppy she knew perfectly well stood near Arya’s feet, looking at her with soft yellow eyes and a dangling small pink tongue: «_Lady_» Sansa murmured shocked, walking towards the pup, who mimicked her, coming towards her on unsteady paws. Then Sansa was kneeling, embracing the creature and crying once again, the little hole that had been in her heart since the death – no, not death, _murder_, _Cersei had murdered Lady_ – of her direwolf finally gone, finally whole again.

«Yeah, yeah, you saw everyone now, but what about me? You’re here for me, are you not?» Arya snapped then and there, recalling on herself the attention of all the present people, and the laugh of most of them: Sansa arose, with Lady in her arms, and went straight to her sister, giving her a hug and a kiss. «So, why are we in this room? Just to hide all of them?» Sansa questioned with a smile, but Arya’s answer froze it in place: «No, of course not. I’m having the baby». «You’re having the baby?!», «Aye, my waters broke like one hour ago?».

«What does it mean that your waters broke an hour ago! Where’s the maester? And the midwife!». «Calm down, we already sent for everyone». «I am calm! Robb, stop eating in the birthing room, if you’re hungry go to the kitchens. Mother, the right side of the bed is mine».

***

What followed soon after was unanimously renamed “_the time of the long walk_”: Arya, Sansa and Catelyn had their arms linked to each other and kept walking around the impossibly large room, while Bran and Rickon were sitting with the direwolves near the hearth and Robb and Ned were talking with Brienne, near the window at the left of the room. Sansa couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but seeing the expression of the woman, it was probably about the War of the Five Kings or the Battle for the Dawn. Surely enough Brienne was thinking about Jaime Lannister.

The room had all the comforts: a table with a soft chair to work, a bathtub, a big hearth to make it warm, big windows at south and west, to have as much sun as possible and a bed large enough to keep the newborn near Arya during the night. The table was, for Sansa’s surprise, almost as full as paper as hers back in Winterfell was: missives, messages, requests, information and letters of job and recommendation only a portion of everything that was on that table and, much too soon, Arya sat again there to work a bit, before the pain got any stronger.

«I always thought that being a Lady would all be about be pretty, embroidering and having children. If I had known that most of it was about writing and numbers I would have complained much less about it» Arya said, looking through the missives from the various ladies and lords of the North, when a well-known sigil came into Sansa’s view: «Why is Alys Karstark writing a letter to you?» the Queen asked, taking the small parchments from the table, under the attentive gaze of her sister.

«I think I know why, but open it and let’s see if I’m right» Arya answered and Sansa broke the sigil of the missive from the last member of House Karstark, just to notice Robb near her, and remembering the history between the Karstarks and Robb, she let him read with her the unexpected message. Though she was going to have a word with Robb, if he had any expectation of getting his throne back. _She_ was the Queen of Winter, and _her_ title wold pass to _her_ children, not to anyone else.  
This was going to give them all a big headache.

_Dear Lady Stark,_

_I hope this missive finds you in good spirit and that your pregnancy is proceeding in the most pleasurable and healthy way._

_I’m writing this letter to you with the hope of receiving advice from you on a most sensible matter that I’ve been thinking very hard about for the last few months. You probably already know this, but I wish to claim back the name Karstark for one or two of my four boys. Harrion and Thorren make me think so much of my dear brothers that I can’t stop thinking about how their name should not be Thenn, but Karstark. I know very well that my father and brother had done a great disservice to House Stark, especially Harrion, but I don’t wish to see a house as old as mine die out because of the stupidity and anger of a few members._

_My question is: should I formally ask the Queen Sansa about the matter? My husband has agreed, but I feel that he does not understand my plight, as names do not mean the same for the free folk, not even for the Thenn, as much as they do for us. I do not know how to act, but I do know that I must, to save House Karstark from ignominy and time._

_I hope in your swift response._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Alys Karstark, Lady Thenn of Karhold._

«Well, this is an unexpected problem» Sansa said, looking at the missive and then to her sister: «How do you think I should proceed?».

«I think you should allow it: the whole conflict with the Karstarks started in a time of war, and there were mistakes on both parts. As long as she knows that Karhold has to stay to House Thenn and that she will have to sort a keep from their own lands, I see no problem in it» both sisters turned to look at Robb, who was looking at the missive with a pale face. Then their brother asked: «What happened with Harrion Karstark?».

«The same that happened to Lady Dustin, Lord Stout and Smalljon Umber: their heads are on pikes at Winterfell for treason, after allying with the Boltons. The Umbers are extinct, as the Night’s King attacked Last Hearth and killed everyone inside: no one now seems to want the keep now, so we are still trying to decide what to do with it. House Dustin has luckily been restored by a distant cousin of the late William Dustin, while House Ryswell is almost destitute now, as we took more than half of their lands for following that bitch of Barbrey Dustin. They should have thought better their actions» Arya said, with a strange dangerous smile on her face, probably thinking of the heads of her enemies on Winterfell’s walls.

«Greatjon was my most loyal follower, I can’t believe his son betrayed us» Robb answered, looking at a map with the detailed territories of every House of the North.

«He didn’t just betray us: he gave Rickon to Ramsay Bolton» Sansa snapped, her voice low and utterly cold, looking at the boy who seemed to be totally unaware of their conversation.

«He did _what_?!» Robb almost screamed, his eyes alight with fury, but then something else seemed to came to him, and softly asked: «I know that Theon didn’t find Bran and Rickon, but…».

«Theon took Winterfell, but he made sure that Bran and Rickon could escape. If they survived the Boltons for years is because of Theon» Arya said, and all the eyes of the family – apart from Bran and Rickon – pointed at her: «Theon paid a great deal more than he should have for the sack of Winterfell. No one should go through what he suffered».

Sansa was looking at Arya with eyes shining of unshed tears, and Arya nodded quickly, before raising again from the table and saying: «Well, time to walk again. Robb, be useful and help me».

Laughter followed Arya and Robb while she waddled around the room, not looking as graceful as usual.

***

It took hours, and hours and then more hours but finally Arya had been ready to give birth, and all the men had been ungracefully pushed out of the room by the joined efforts of maester Rodrick – a middle aged man, more near his fifties than his forties, with more grey hair than black and dark and intelligent brown eyes – and the midwife – another middle aged woman, but this one more near her forties. Sansa and Catelyn were the only one allowed inside: Sansa for her standing and the fact that she had been there for every one of her nephews and nieces, while Catelyn had stood at the left of the bed and stated to the maester that, if he wanted her to move, he would have to move her physically. No further objection was made to her presence. Many screams and more hours after, silence descended on the birthing room, then a shrill wailing was heard, and the Starks men cheered from outside. Sansa opened the door, her simple braid and light make up destroyed from sweat, and they entered with the other children – minus young Bran and Cassana, who had been sleeping for a long time by then – in the room to see the new addition to the Baratheon household.

The baby was all red – if for the stifling room or the work of coming in the world, one could only guess – but kept wailing and wailing until he was put in Arya’s arms, and only then calmed down. Sansa was looking at the newborn from the right side of the bed, peering at it with love and joy in her eyes. Arya looked at her child and murmured: «Gendry owes me ten dragons!».

«So he is a boy?» Ned asked, coming closer to his wife side, then peering at the babe: the infant had tousled black hair, the colour of the darkest ink, and Sansa would bet that his eyes were as blue as his father.

«Aye, a boy… I wanted to call him Rickon, but we already have two Robbs and two Brans, so…».

«Do you have another name in mind?» Catelyn asked, peering at the babe with a soft smile.

«Aye, I do. Cregan, like the Old Wolf, the grandfather of Sansa Stark» Arya smiled at her babe, who smiled back at her, almost in reflex.

«Well then, welcome to the North, Cregan Baratheon» Sansa said, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, finally, Sansa Stark, Queen of Winter is here! My gosh, I love this chapter, I really love Sansa - the grown up Sansa, at least - and how strong she got after everything that happened. I really think that she and Arya have a very strong relationship now, after everything they went through, and I think it shows in this chapter - and in the next ones that will come.  
Anyway, this story has a board on pinterest! You can find it [here](https://www.pinterest.it/alasseschwarz/ff-winter-has-come-but-spring-will-follow/)! I hope you like it, I used it to get inspiration for the fic, and will probably keep doing so, hope you like it!


	9. Chapter VIII: Ned – The Tower of Joy (Honour has its costs)

**Chapter VIII: Ned – The Tower of Joy (_Honour has its costs_)**

The place he seemed to find himself more often these days, to probably no one’s surprise but his own, was the Godswood. He had always been a faithful man, it had been in his blood like the wolf’s blood had been in Brandon’s, and he had sought council in the Old Gods more often than in anyone else, even Catelyn.  
Maybe _especially Catelyn_. It had never been a problem: Cat was - is - a faithful woman herself, and she always understood and shared his need to pray his gods. But it was hard to be here now: hard to remember everything – the betrayal, the loss, the crushed hope and sense of defeat – and harder still to hear about everything that had happened _after_ his death. How could he have thought even for one second that Cersei would act honourably, after she had committed treason to the Crown and killed her own husband? How could he have trusted Littlefinger, with all the rumours and whispers that he had heard about the man? How could he have been so utterly stupid?

He had bended for damned Cersei Lannister, killed his own daughter direwolf – a gift from the Old Gods to his children – only for the blasted woman to bring the whole Westeros to its knees, in her mad quest to keep her monstrous children alive – no, not only alive, in power too. He kept thinking about what happened in King’s Landing and kept questioning _how_ could he have been that stupid, but nothing seemed to explain how his wits had burned out in the months he had passed in that shithole of a city. He had been looking at his children hard, since coming back, and hadn’t recognized any of them: Robb’s shoulders seemed to always be heavy with burdens too big for a boy of only nine-and-ten; his sweet Sansa had passed from a shy and delightful child to a woman made of ice and steel, a true Stark, but what of the price? What had she seen and endured, to become such a formidable woman? Ned’s dread to the answer for that question rivalled only the one he felt about the Night’s King.  
Bran seemed to live in a world different from theirs more often than not, and Rickon was just a little less wild than he had been as a babe, but ten times more guarded than back then. And Arya, his wilful, wild, young Arya. She was the most terrible to witness of all his children: the others were still a bit like their old self, changed yes, but still a growth of the children they had been. _Arya wasn’t_. Arya was a cold storm, an avalanche of ice and pain, her path littered in blood and her eyes as cold as the hearts of those who had ripped her apart and made anew. Sometimes it seemed as if she was watching them ready to destroy them, to burn anything that was on her way, or on the way of her family survival, only to stop for a second and remember that _they were family too_. And yet Ned had the sick certainty that, if Arya ever had to choose, she would choose the family who had survived first, and all the others later.  
_And he would not blame her. He would choose his children over everything, too._

White cold snow was falling around him, over him, the time endless and not existing at the same time, while he looked at the face in the Heart Tree, hoping for answer that he knew were never going to come, and yet couldn’t stop hoping nonetheless. The soft sound of boots pressing on snow reached his ears and he turned around to see Catelyn coming his way, dressed in a pale grey gown he remembered seeing on her often, in the coldest days that graced his lands so often. His wife kneeled beside him and looked around a bit, before her eyes stopped on the Heart Tree with a strange dept in her gaze. _"W__as she trying to guess the Gods’ thoughts too, as he had moment before, or was she just noticing the difference between this Heart Tree and the one in Winterfell? What was she thinking? What was she feeling?"_ the questions kept coming to his mind, one after another, as he tried to pass the distance that was there, between them, since the truth about Jon parentage had come out more than a week prior now. Ned had feared, many years ago, that the distance between him and Catelyn after she had seen Jon would never be closed, butit did. At a slow pace, one foot after the other. _One brick after another_, as she had said once. And yet now, once again, the distance was there for the same child, who now had a different name and a very different weight on them all.

«I never really felt home in a Godswood, I always felt like a stranger in Winterfell’s, but now I feel like a stranger in the Sept too. I feel adrift, like a log carried away in the water of a long river» Catelyn started speaking and Ned listened quietly, not knowing what to say – or if to say anything at all; «The day Jon departed for the Wall» Cat continued, her eyes far away now as if remembering something: «he came to see Bran, and do you know what I told him, Ned? I told him _“It should have been you”_». Eddard felt his breath stop, just like his heart, while looking at his wife as if he had never saw her before. She didn’t turn to see him, but there was something there, a coldness as if something had been broken deeply inside her and kept going, her voice strangled: «I should have been a mother for Jon, but instead I was his nightmare. And it was _you_ who did this to me, Ned. You brought out the best of me, but also the worst. Oh, I know you could not have trusted me, not in the beginning, but you _never_ trusted me, Ned. We were married for almost twenty years, I bore you children and kept your counsel, but you never trusted me. You, your lie and your distrust made a monster out of me Ned, and I should have been stronger, and probably I will forgive with time, I always do, I love you too much not to do so, but… But I will always remember this, Ned. I will remember and this will always stand between us» she didn’t gave him time to say anything, but got up and disappeared in a flash of dark red hair.

_“How do you react to the world, when everything you remember is proven false and every true thing is out from your worst nightmare?”_ Eddard thought, looking hard at his hands, his back bent and his heart burning:_ “When you promised yourself that your daughters would be protected by honourable men, and instead they faced the worst of the depravity that humans could conceive? When you promised yourself to let your sons live without knowing war, but not only they saw war, but died for it? What are you supposed to do, when your family is destroyed by something worse than death?”. _His thoughts got more and more desperate the longer he sat there, and no answer came. No one answered him.

***

It was while he was still sitting in the Godswood, utterly untouched by the cold, that his daughter finds him: Sansa resembled Catelyn in ways Ned had thought impossible when the girl had been just three-and-ten, not only in her high cheekbones, fiery hair, Tully Blue eyes, but for the fire that burned in her heart, the will to love and persist against anything, the strength to keep her head high and her face dry, as she fought enemies that she should never have met. Ned turned to see his child coming his way, dressed in a black gown of northerner style that she would not have been caught dead in when she was but a girl; that was one of the things that made clear to him _how much_ his daughter had changed in the years he had been in the world after the living: Sansa didn’t dress to be pretty anymore, she dressed to make statements. Every dress, every jewel, every hair on her head was where it was for a reason, and it shocked him to see Cersei Lannister hand in that.

_“My daughter is a wolf raised by lions. How terrifying can a creature like that be?”_ Ned asked himself, until Sansa dropped on her knees near him, uncaring about her pretty gown getting wet and dirty in front of the Heart Tree.

«I have to confess you something» Sansa said, her lips dry, her face pale and her eyes guarded.

«You can tell me anything, Sweet one. You know that, right?» Ned said, but no smile made way to his face, too tired to master one, and the young woman took notice as she seemed to gather courage and breath in one go, then said: «It was my fault you died».

Ned stared at her for some seconds, looking at her like she had grown a second head – and that would probably have shocked him way less than this – then muttered: «What do you mean?».

«I didn’t want to leave, I thought myself in love with Joffrey, and told Cersei of your plans. That’s how you got caught» Sansa said, her eyes full of unshed tears and Ned felt his heart clenching at the thought of his daughter thinking such madness: «Did you swing the sword that cut my head, Sansa?».

She looked at him like he was just as mad, but he went on: «Did you kill our men? Put me in chains? Ordered my head in front of that damn sept? Then, as you can see, nothing of this is your fault, child. I was stupid back then, I expected monsters to act just as honourably as I would have, and you all paid for this. You and Arya and Jon especially. Oh, don’t look at me like that, child. Yes, I, you mother and brothers died, but dying is the easy part. I know that now. No, you all suffered more than any man or woman should. _Than any child should_. So don’t torment yourself anymore, Sansa, my death was never your burden to keep» he finished, catching his child in his arms and sensing her tremble in them.

«We brought you justice, Father. Arya and I. Joffrey was poisoned by Baelish, and Cersei Lannister died when Daenerys Targaryen burned King’s Landing, but we judged Littlefinger in Winterfell, and executed him» Sansa whispered after a while and Ned asked himself if he was going to live the rest of his life learning what his children had to do to repair his stupidity. _He hoped not_.

Life is not fair, Ned had learned that the day he had arrived to Jon Arryn’s solar, only to hear of his father and brother gruesome deaths. It didn’t matter if you were an old man tired of living or a girl barely fifteen with dreams of great love, he had learned that when he had found Lyanna, only to lose her moments after, and when he had left Starfall, only to hear of Ashara’s suicide once arrived in King’s Landing, or when he had seen the bodies of Elia Martell and her children and heard Robert laughter. No, life was never fair. Ned knew that, but more often, it was death who wasn’t fair_._

_Does death only come for the wicked and leave the decent behind? No, it doesn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we come again with Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. I really, really, really don't like this chapter. It was hard to write, and yet here we stand, in front of the misery of this man who came back to life only to hear of the mess his death brought on Westeros. I somewhat feel like I didn't really convey what I was trying to with this chapter: Ned is really devastated by what he is learning, and he needs someone or something to tell him that this all had some meaning, that his family hadn't suffered for nothing, but as we all know the gods don't just answer like that.  
And then we have Catelyn, who finally notices that she hadn't exactly been the most kind woman on Westeros and who is fighting her own demons, and yet has to tell her husband about it all, to get some of her anger out of her chest. We will see more in her chapter, but Catelyn has quite the road in front of herself.  
Then Sansa, who has a lot to take off of her chest, like her mother, but who also has quiet the baggage on her mind about everything.   
Tell me what you think of everything, see you next week with Arya's chapter!
> 
> Alasse


	10. Chapter IX: Arya – Valar Dohaeris (A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I’m going home)

**Chapter IX: Arya – Valar Dohaeris (_A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I’m going home_)**

Cregan was just as fussy as his brothers and sisters had been before him: he cried and screamed and wailed until he got what he wanted, and Arya was seriously starting to think that _maybe_ she should have listened to the midwife last time and stopped after Bran was born: this child was the biggest she ever birthed, bigger than even her Eddard had been, and her body had reacted pushing him out way before term. It could have killed her, had he been any bigger, and the thought of dying now, with everything that was happening around her, _scared_ her. She had wanted to die for so long, that now that she wanted to live and see her children grow to adulthood – like Catelyn Stark had not been able to do – she might have died to bring her beloved boy to the world. She couldn’t take the chance again, she really couldn’t, so she had ordered the maester to prepare Moon Tea for her to start drinking it, once Gendry came back.

She _missed_ Gendry: she missed his kindness and his kisses and his _being at her side_ when she needed him, and she was starting to regret letting him go all the way south to Moat Cailin with everything that was happening. She needed her husband here, with her and their children, where he could reassure her that everything was going to be alright and that everything else could be reasoned with. Or killed. A lifetime ago _No One_ would have been ashamed of this dependency on someone, of this _need_ to have someone at her side, but she was not No One anymore, she was _Arya Stark_, and Arya of House Stark was a wolf, and wolves have mates and packs. Arya had a pack now, a stronger and wiser pack, and they were not going to be taken and killed and skinned this time. There was no shame in needing family and people at her side, and she was going to rely on those people and to let them rely on her, and together they were going to protect their family. Aye, this time they would not fail. Her thoughts stopped when the big door of her birthing room was thrown open and Sansa entered bringing the children with her: Young Bran was babbling about something in his aunt’s arms, while Cassana and Argella seemed just eager to get on the bed with her and Cregan. Little Ned was nowhere in sight, so Arya turned to her sister and asked: «Where’s my husband’s heir?».

«He is downstairs with Father, our brothers and your Master-at-arms, they are training with the swords: he seems overjoyed, though it is obvious that he prefers a hammer as his weapon» Sansa explained, smiling, then she put young Bran on the bed and took Cregan from Arya’s tired arms.

Arya was tired, _very tired_, and she knew that Sansa – more than any other member of their family, even their mother – had noticed. The birth had been _hard_, harder than even her first one, when she had thought that her body was going to be ripped in half. Her body was not made for birthing children: she was too small, her hips were not wide enough to allow safe passage to the baby; she had a good body to fight and kill, small and quick and hard to notice, but not to childbirth. Many women had whispered and said that she should have stopped after Ned, that she had a male heir and she should have concentrated on survive herself, but she had loved her son like she had loved nothing else ever, and before she had known Cass and Ella had been there too. And then young Bran and Cregan. Her children had filled the pain and despair of her lost ones with peace and serenity like she had never witnessed before, and not only hers. Jon and Sansa had loved her children, the whole North had looked at her children like the sign that the war was finally over. Her little fawns were a symbol for their land, and she had wanted as many as possible. The Queen frowned, looking at her sister, while slowly rocking the baby in her arms: «Arya, if you’re so tired maybe we should let you sleep».

«No, we don’t see each other much, with the North to run and households and children to think about. I want to enjoy your time here» Arya smiled slightly, thinking how their younger selves would only have been overjoyed at not seeing each other, but that was _before_. Before the war, the loss, the suffering, the cruelty and the madness. Before being ripped apart and made anew by monsters so different and yet so similar to each other. Now Arya really wanted her sister around, even if only to remember that she wasn’t the only Stark left in the world, like she had thought for so long. «How are your children doing? Little Robb is one year old already!» Arya asked, pushing the memories away and concentrating on the present, Sansa smiled and answered: «Oh, he has gotten so big, Arya! And he looks just like Rickon and Bran when they were born! And...». «And?» «I think I'm pregnant again» «That's great news Sansa! Congratulation! Did you tell Jon?» «Not yet, I wanted to be sure, I will ask the measter to check me once I'm back in Winterfell» «Jon will be overjoyed, being a father again!».

«Why did you lie to them? About Theon?» Sansa asked quietly, changing the topic abruptly, after the girls had relocated in front of the hearth to play with some old dolls who had been Sansa’s once: they had found them in an old chest in Winterfell many years prior and kept them there, even though they should have just burned them. But most of those doll’s had been stitched by Catelyn Stark herself and none of her daughters had the strength to destroy one of the last memories they had of their mother. But once Cassana was born, Sansa had given half of the dolls to Arya, for her daughter to play with as Sansa had played as a child. The sweet thoughts changed in more terrible ones, memories of a dark time when she had first heard of Winterfell’ sack and of her little brothers' heads on spikes on the walls. It had been one of the worst days of her life, the feeling of utter loss she had felt at her father’s death had been nothing in front of the belief that Bran and Rickon had been murdered in such a terrible way. Arya had _hated_ Theon, when she had found out that he had been behind the sack. Hated of a hate as big and dark as the one she felt for Joffrey, an ugly and desperate thing, who had pushed her even further on her path for vengeance than she had been before. And yet, she had not killed the man. Because the same man who had sacked her home had saved his sister, and she could not forget that. She didn’t forgive Theon, she was probably never going to, but she also didn’t want him to be remembered only for the sack of Winterfell: Theon had saved Sansa and died to protect Bran. He died a good man, he died a _Stark_, and Arya was done letting people forget things to their own convenience, even herself. «Bran once told me» Arya whispered, her voice so low that only Sansa could hear her: «that Theon knew where he and Rickon were hiding, and that he made the Ironborn go another way, so that they could escape. I don’t think he was lying: for how resourceful Bran, Osha and the Reed brothers were, Theon had grown up in Winterfell. He knew it as he knew the back of his hands, there was no way for them to escape, if Theon had really wanted to kill them. He sacked our home, and I will never forgive that, but he also let our brothers go, he saved you and died to protect Bran. I will never forget that either, and I don’t want anyone else to forget it. Theon Greyjoy died _a good man_».

Sansa’s eyes were full of unshed tears now, probably thinking on those days where Theon had been the only light in a life that seemed on the verge of destruction, where only pain had made sense and the night was something to dread more than death itself. Arya turned a bit, looking at her daughters, leaving her sister time to compose herself – Sansa never let anything destroy her composure nowadays, she must have been on the verge of imploding to let even Arya see her like that – and only once Sansa’s breath was even again she turned, to see a smile on her sister face and light in her Tully blue eyes.

Then Sansa said: «Now we just have to decide what to do with _them_» and the two sisters were at work again.

***

Years later probably Arya would have remembered that day with fondness, but in that moment she just wanted to rip her hair from her head and scream herself hoarse: her birthing room – the one she had planned from her very first pregnancy to be a place of peace and quiet – was overrun with people, who were probably just a few shades from screaming for how loud they were speaking to hear each other over everyone else voices. And they spoke louder and louder until Arya just snapped and said: «Can you all _please_ shut up?!». The silence that followed would have been funny, had it not been something almost out of a nightmare for Arya: and how can it be anything else, when your long dead parents and brothers are looking at you like you’re crazy?

«May you be _silent_? I’m trying – and utterly failing – to rest here, you know?» Arya said, checking that Cregan was still asleep near her, and sighing in relief when she found him just such. She didn’t have the strength to deal with more of crying today, he was a very cranky baby and she just _knew_ that he was going to be a very cranky child too, and was in no hurry to deal with any of it: «If you have to speak in such high voices, please do get out, I’m really too tired for this».

She noticed the hurt in some of their faces – not in her mother’s, that woman knew how tiring childbirth was – but Robb was looking at her like she had slapped him, and so she signed for him to sit at her side, while the rest of their family left the room – and she could just hear their voices rising again, near the stairs.

«What is it, Robb? You look like someone murdered you. _Again_» Arya smiled a bit, trying to lighten the air around them and taking her brother’s hand in her smaller ones: he clinged to them like a child to his mother after a bad dream and it was then that she knew it was bad. Robb _never_ let anyone of his younger brothers and sisters notice when he was sad or terrified, only Jon, and sometimes Theon, were allowed to see that side of him, the weak side as she had referred to it when she had been young and so very stupid and ignorant. _There is no weakness in needing people, or to be loved. The true weak ones are those who love no one._

«Why are we back? What is going to happen now?» Robb asked her, his voice broken under a weight bigger than Arya had even imagined being on his shoulders: «I can barely recognize you and Sansa, Arya. Westeros had gone all the way to the seven hells while I was dead and all I thought I knew was based on a lie. Nothing makes sense, but you and Sansa are the two things I understand less in all this. I can’t understand the way you suffered, but I know part of it is my fault _and it is killing me, Arya_. I don’t know what to do, Sansa seems to hate me but how could have I known what she was going through with Joffrey? How could I have known that the Lannister would be _so dishonourable_?» tears were falling from his eyes, and Arya pulled him towards her and embraced him, noticing that his hair was just as soft and red as she remembered, while stroking his head.

«You couldn’t have known, Robb. No one could have known, not until they showed how rotten and terrible they were to your face, and when that happened it was to late to escape them» she murmured, trying to find a way to talk about her good-sister without hurting her brother further, but not finding any way around it: «That’s not why Sansa is angry at you, Robb. Sansa knows that none of that is your fault. You were fighting for her, but then…».

«But then she got married to the Imp and I found Talisa» Robb sighed, looking to Cregan with such a despaired gaze that Arya felt her insides crushed under his feelings: «I’m sorry, Robb. I’m so sorry she died».

«Thank you, Arya. She was pregnant, you know? _I was going to be a father_, but now I never will» he murmured still in her arms, but she shook her head quickly and said: «Robb you’re _nine and ten_, you have all your life in front of you. You can marry again and be a father. I know you loved her, but… please, you are here again, don’t stop yourself from being happy again. I can’t believe the woman you loved would want it».

«No» he said, still looking at Cregan: «No, she would not».

It was then that she felt it, a cold shiver running down her back as the door opened to reveal a maid coming in with a trail of food that smelled of stew: the maid nodded, her light hair and eyes made her a very cute sight, but Arya knew the moment she saw her that something was wrong.

_“That’s not one of my maids”_ she thought, pushing Robb out of the way, but just then the girl murmured: «Valar Morghulis».

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yeah, I'm back! I'm so very sorry for not publishing this chapter last week, but my computer left this world and I had to go and buy a new one, so yeah, it was not really my fault.  
Anyway, I reaaaally love this chapter, I think it is one of my best - not as good as Jon's or Rickon's, but quite good - and I love the way Arya interacts with her siblings. She grew up a lot, my little girl, and everyone is noticing it, some more some less. She misses Gendry a lot, but I would miss my husband a lot too in such situation! He will come back soon, Arya, I swear!  
And yeah, the last bit... You thought only the South was going to be a problem here? Nah, that would be way too simple! So yeah, a visit from someone sent by the God of Death! We will see how that goes, with Arya so tired and Robb who might very well not stand a chance against a faceless.  
Tell me what you think, see you next week!


	11. Chapter X: Robb – The King in the North (Here we stand)

**Chapter X: Robb – The King in the North (_Here we stand_)**

_“Valar Morghulis”_ the maid said and for some reason those words ringed something in Robb’s memories, something far away and almost forgotten, which made it impossible for him to actually _remember_ where he had heard them, or what they meant. Yet Arya sat rigid on the bed, like a wolf ready to tear a dangerous enemy apart and Robb slowly moved his hand towards his belt knife. For a few seconds nothing moved, the whole world seemed to stop and keep its breath, while the two women looked at each other, then Arya murmured: «Valar Morghulis. All men must die. But, alas, _I am no man_». Before Robb could make any sense of her phrase a knife – _his _belt knife – was flying in the air and struck the maid in the neck, without leaving her any chance to move out of the way. Robb and Arya were both on their feet and near the woman before she had even died, but Arya kept him far away from the maid, as if she was scared of her: what could scare her so much? She was Arya Stark, the killer of the Night King! How could she be scared of a maid?

«Call Sansa» Arya said, kneeling near the woman once sure she was dead and Robb didn’t even think to stop and ask what was going on: he trusted that Arya knew what was happening and what was best, on the contrary of him that was still struggling with this new world, and went out of the room, running all the way to Arya’s solar, where he knew he would find Sansa. And there she was, managing the keep for their sister, working on a scale that impressed Robb every time he witnessed it: many times it had been repeated in front of the Stark children that Sansa was born to be Queen, and Robb had believed it, without a doubt. But he knew that they had all been very wrong. Sansa was not born to be Queen, _Sansa was born to rule_. Just as war and leading came naturally to Robb, being honourable to Jon and studying to Old Bran, for Sansa ruling came naturally. And it was the most beautiful sight, seeing his sister moving in her element as a direwolf moved in the wild: a most impressive and powerful beast, ruling over her forest.

_The forest which had been _his_ once._

But Robb shook his head at the treacherous thought, and stepped further inside the room, seeing Lady and Grey Wind napping at Sansa’s feet, then called her name: Sansa turned around, a question in her gaze, but already standing from her seat, followed by the two pups. «We have to go to Arya» Robb said, and in a matter of seconds they were running upstairs, followed by a very angry Nymeria, who had seemed to come out of nowhere. When they got there, though, Robb stood still shocked at the entrance of the birthing room, looking over the body of a woman very different from the one that had come in and had been killed by Arya: where the maid had been petit and with light skin and hair, the woman now on the pavement was darker, her hair a mess of black curls. «Who’s that? What for all the seven hells is going on here?» Robb asked, not knowing what to do or think anymore: he wasn’t used to this, to Arya murdering someone in cold blood and Sansa getting inside a room with a dead body without fainting for the shock.

«Who is that? The maid? But her face is-» he stopped half way through is phrase, shocked by what was in Arya’s right hand: a face – _the maid’s face_ – that looked empty, like a mummer’s mask, something more like out of a nightmare than the reality, and it was then that Robb finally snapped: «You two are going to explain to me what is happening _now_» he ordered with his _King voice_, as Talisa had referred to it once, a lifetime ago. Sansa seemed to bristle under his tone, but he didn’t care at all, and kept his back straight and his eyes in Arya’s one. He wasn’t going to back down now, he wanted answers and he was going to have them, no matter what.

Arya seemed to want to fight him from her position on the ground for a second, her eyes moving from Sansa to him again, but then she spoke: «She’s not one of my maids, I’m not even sure where this one took this face, but she was probably from the village south of the keep».

«Took the face? What do you mean _took_? It’s… it’s not made?» Robb asked, not sure if he really wanted an answer to that question, as something very disturbing was conjuring in his mind.

«Faceless assassins have to kill and take faces to wear from their kills, they don’t just “make” them, Robb» Arya answered, studying the face in her hands like she was used to it, and only then Robb remembered her words, from almost two weeks prior: _“After the Red Wedding the Hound brought me to the Eyre, but when we arrived there we found out that Lysa had died and we – or better, the Hound – was attacked by Brienne of Tarth that, at the time, was on a quest to find Sansa and me. It was then that I escaped to Bravos and there… I trained to become a Faceless assassin”_. «You have done this yourself before, right? When… when you killed the Freys» Robb asked, when the truth and weight of what his sister had to go through finally hit him, terrifying and devastating. And then he did something he would never have dreamed in his last life: he went to his little sister, his wild baby sister, bended in front of her, both on the ground, his head bowed low, and murmured: «I’m sorry, Arya, _forgive me_». Both women stopped breathing, and Sansa’s face was as white as a sheet, like something had hit her in the stomach, then closed her eyes and turned away from him. Arya, though, smiled a bit and put her free hand on his shoulder, nodding slowly. Nymeria who had stayed out of the room the whole time entered and licked his cheek. None of them moved, and only when voices arrived from the stairs they got back to themselves: Sansa went out of the room and sent the children away, excusing it with a _“I’m sorry, but your mother is very tired. You can see her tomorrow”_. Only Father, Mother, Old Bran and Rickon came in with Sansa, and when they saw the body in front of Arya and Robb Catelyn Stark almost seemed ready to faint, just to gather her wits and march to embrace her youngest daughter; then she looked at Robb and demanded: «What in the name of the Seven and the Old Gods happened here?». Robb sighed, it was going to be a _very long night_.

***

«You’re telling us that an assassin came here all the way from Braavos to try and kill Arya?» Catelyn asked, sitting on the bed near her daughters, while Bran and Rickon were sitting on the furs that covered the pavement and Father kept himself near the hearth: all the family was pale and shaken, as they looked the little peace they had built in those last few days start to crumble in front of them. Robb wanted to look at Arya, see what she was thinking – even though he knew he couldn’t read her anymore, he couldn’t read any of his sisters anymore – but she was nursing and he couldn’t look at her while she was doing that. Rickon and Bran didn’t seem to have the same problem, and were looking at Cregan like he was doing something extraordinary. At some point Rickon pointed at Cregan and asked: «Did I do that too?». It was such an innocent question, and so strange to hear in an eleven years old, that Robb’s heart almost broke, looking at his baby brother. It was Arya who answered: «Aye, you did, but with Mother, not with me». At Rickon’s questioning gaze Catelyn nodded, a small smile on her lips, but her forehead was wrinkled in thought – and not happy ones, Robb could tell.

He tried to look towards Arya, but Cregan was still nursing and the young woman didn’t seem to mind the gaze on her breasts, to Robb’s dismay, and in the end he muttered: «I think I will wait outside until you’re finished, Arya». He didn’t even have time to turn around, however, because his sister snorted – in a very unlady like way – and said: «You’re nine and ten, Robb, and you were married. I’m not doing anything strange, I’m feeding my child. If you feel like I should hide while I do it, you are strange, not I».

«I don’t think you should hide! I only think you shouldn’t do that in front of men!» he answered, meeting her burning eyes, and she hissed: «You’re my brother, Robb! And anyway, I’m not doing anything dirty! _I’m feeding my child_. If you can’t see the difference, that’s your problem, and let me tell, it’s stupid!».

«It’s not stupid, Arya!» Robb tried to argue, just to be interrupted by Sansa’s voice: «Enough you two, we’re not here to discuss Cregan’s nursing. We need to talk about the faceless. Arya, you’re the only one alive to know them and their methods: what to you think they are going to do now that they attack failed?».

«I think they knew that this one was going to fail, or maybe they thought that I would still be pregnant, so Cregan being born early saved my life in the end. Anyway, I think they are going to wait and see what I do, before they try their hand again».

Sansa seemed to think really hard for a minute, then she nodded to herself: «We are all going to Winterfell and we’re calling Gendry back from Moat Cailin».

«To make your sister and the baby travel so soon after the birth would be madness, Sansa!» Cat intervened, looking at her daughter with a steely gaze, and Sansa nodded: «Cregan is a week old now, we will depart once he is two weeks old, that way Arya will be back on her feet. I have the sensation that the threat from across the Narrow Sea is not the only one we are going to face, and we need to be in Winterfell when that happens». Not everyone seemed satisfied with that explanation, Cat least of all, but Arya nodded and said: «Very well, send word to Gendry and order to prepare for travel. I will give instruction to my steward and see to what I can before we go». No one found anything to say against it, but a strange excitement started running in Robb’s heart: they were going back to Winterfell. _The Stark were going home_. _“Winter is coming”_ Robb thought, his mind going to the men and women who had died with him at the Twins and even before that, in his quest for family and justice, but at the forefront wasn’t Talisa, but Dacey Mormont and the words of the she-bear. _“Watch me. Come. Here I stand”_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hello again!   
And yeah, hello with a very very intense chapter, at least it was intense to write!  
Arya, as usual, rules and rocks, 'cause did you really expect her to die there? No, it would be to short. And it's not she, who has to pay here, it wasn't her who stole from the God of Death.  
Robb finally notice - really notice, really understands - that Sansa and Arya are not what he remembers AT ALL. They are not the two little sisters who departed at eleven and thirteen for the capital, way younger and less malicious - because, let's face it, Sansa and Arya have learned to be very malicious, the way they tricked Littlefinger tells it all - than they are now. He was the oldest and "wisest" back then, now he is younger than both Sansa and Arya, and way less experienced, wise or knowledgeable. And yet he demonstrates a different maturity, by saying sorry to Arya and taking the responsability - not all his, obviously - of what she (and Sansa too) had to go through because he didn't win the war. He has the maturity to step us and say "Yes, that's my mistake", a maturity that even Sansa doesn't seem to have here. But yeah, we will see more of Sansa in next chapter, since it's back to her pov again! And we're going back to Winterfell, aren't you excited? ;)  
Unfortunatly, and I'm very sorry, next chapter won't be next week but in two weeks, for some family matters I have to attend. I hope to hear from you soon! See you in two weeks!


	12. Announcement

Good morning guys,

I hope this message of mine finds you all well! I'm so sorry, but this is not a chapter, I'm here because I'm having some ugly stuff happening here in my real life that I need to deal with right now, and I don't know how long will take me to sort everything out. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. I can't make any promises on when I will be back, but I do promise that _I will be back_. This story means a lot to me, and I want to finish it - hopefully with a happy ending, but I'm not sure the God of Death agrees with that :P

So yeah, I will come back soon enough, with new chapters and adventures for those characters! 

Alasse_Schwarz


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